then, Tom called their attention to the mother bird. “Doesn’t it almost seem as if she were thanking us?” And it really did seem so. The little bird had settled back on her nest with her black eyes fixed gratefully on her rescuers and making little, low, gurgling noises way down in her throat. Nearby on a low branch the father bird was swaying back and forth, pouring out his musical notes straight from a little heart bursting with gratitude and joy.
Leaving the happy family to its own devices, the boys took up the trail again. In high spirits, they chased each other over fallen logs and through the dense foliage, peered into squirrels’ holes and rabbits’ burrows, commented upon the appearance and habits of the sly little chipmunk and other interesting, woodland creatures.
Before they realized it they had come upon the “Red Scout” standing just as they had left it in its leafy garage.
While they were on the way home they examined the snake skin. It was a beauty of its kind. It was about a yard long and the sixteen copper-red, moccasin-shaped stripes were very clearly defined.
As soon as they reached camp they gave in their report to Mr. Hollis. The boys all crowded around, eager to hear about the snake and camp site. The heroes of the day were deluged with questions. “How did you get it?” “Have you found a good place for camp?” “Where is it?” “What does it look like?” “Tell us all about it.”
Finally, Mr. Hollis, seeing how tired and hungry they were, came to their rescue, proposing that they eat their supper first and save the tale of adventure until the camp council. At first they agreed rather hesitatingly but, as an appetizing smell issued forth from the mess tent, they found that they couldn’t get there fast enough.
After supper the boys made a roaring fire and squatted around it, waiting for the roll-call. Then Mr. Hollis called the roll, beginning with Adams and ending with Taylor. As everybody was there, the reports were called for. Every boy reported his adventures and experiences during the day; all of which would have been intensely interesting to the boys as a rule, but they were so anxious to hear Bert’s report that they passed over the others rapidly.
When at last Bert’s turn came, they all crowded forward with eager interest, and they were not disappointed. Bert told his story simply and well, and was not once interrupted.
When the tale was finished the boys fairly exploded. Cries of “Isn’t it great?” “Everything is sure going our way this year,” mingled with “How did you manage to get the stone without the snake hearing you?” “What are you going to do with the skin now that you’ve got it?” And to all Bert gave a satisfactory answer.
It was a long time before the boys could quiet down and even then they felt like hearing something exciting.
“Who can tell a good ghost story?” Bob asked.
“Dave’s the boy. Come on, Dave, put on your thinking cap.”
Dave Ferris had been elected official story teller at the beginning, because he always had a stock on hand, and they were generally thrilling tales of adventure or weird ghost stories, the kind that boys always revel in.
Dave was silent, thinking for a little while. Then he said, “All right boys, here goes. Are you ready?”
To a chorus of “Sure thing, fire away, and break the speed limit,” they all gathered closer together around the fire and Dave began his story.
CHAPTER IV
The Challenge
Dave certainly could not complain of a bored or indifferent audience. Even Mr. Hollis was absorbed and listened with a smile on his kindly face. He was always intensely interested in anything the boys said or did, and was never happier than when he saw that they were especially enjoying themselves.
Dave had just reached the most thrilling part of his story, and in their imaginations the boys could hear the wailings of the ghost and the clanking of his chains. He was describing the awful appearance of its sunken fiery eyes, when Shorty happened to glance apprehensively around and immediately emitted a blood-curdling yell.
“The ghost! The ghost!” he stammered, pointing in the direction of the road. All leaped to their feet and followed the direction of Shorty’s trembling finger, and for a moment even Bert Wilson felt a queer little tightening sensation about the heart, for there, apparently coming directly toward them, were the fiery eyes that Dave had just described with such gusto.
“Why, you simps,” laughed Bert, “that’s no ghost, or if it is, it is the most solid spook I ever heard of. Those are the acetylene lamps of another auto,” and as he spoke he exchanged significant glances with Mr. Hollis.
Somewhat ashamed of having been so startled, the boys now fell to guessing at the mission of the strange car. They had not long to wait. In a few minutes they could hear the purring of its exhaust, and soon a great gray automobile dashed into camp and drew up in front of the fire.
From it descended a genial looking man, apparently of about the same age as Mr. Hollis, followed by five clean cut young fellows.
Mr. Hollis and Mr. Thompson, as the new comer’s name proved to be, evidently knew each other and shook hands heartily. Meanwhile the camp boys mingled with their unexpected guests and with the freemasonry of youth soon became chummy.
The only fault perhaps that could be found with the new arrivals was that they seemed to be a trifle overbearing, and evidently thought that their car, which they called the “Gray Ghost,” could beat any other automobile ever made.
It is needless to state that Bert’s crowd felt the same way regarding the “Red Scout,” so that the boys were soon engaged in a heated argument concerning the respective merits of their cars.
“Why,” maintained Tom, hotly, “you fellows have no idea what our ‘Red Scout’ can do in the way of speed and hill climbing. Just to-day we were out on a run and, though I didn’t actually time it, I am dead sure there were stretches where we did as well as a mile a minute. What do you think of that?” he asked triumphantly.
Indeed, this seemed to cool the visitors down somewhat and they exchanged surprised glances. But they soon recovered their confidence and went on to describe the speed qualities of their car with ever-increasing enthusiasm.
“It was just a short time ago,” said one whose name turned out to be Ralph Quinby, “that we took the ‘Gray Ghost’ around the old race track just outside the town, and we averaged over fifty miles an hour. We could have gone much faster too, only Mr. Thompson would not let us. I’ll just bet your auto couldn’t go as fast as that.”
It was now the turn of their hosts to look doubtful. They were sure, however, that the “Red Scout” could hold its own with any other car, and as they thought of their idolized driver, Bert Wilson, their confidence came back with a rush.
“Well,” replied Tom, drawing a long breath, “you fellows evidently think you could win in a race and we just know that we could, so I guess the only way to settle the dispute is to run off a race somewhere and prove which is the better machine. I know we’d be willing if you would, wouldn’t we, boys?”
There was a chorus of approving shouts from his companions, but the visitors only smiled in a superior fashion, and evidently thought there could be but one conclusion to any race in which their car was entered.
Meanwhile, Mr. Hollis and Mr. Thompson were holding an earnest conversation in which the latter seemed to be urging some point about which Mr. Hollis apparently hesitated.
