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Rover Boys in Camp

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<h2 id="id01690" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXIII</h2> <h5 id="id01691">A GLIMPSE OF AN OLD ENEMY</h5> "We are in a pickle now and no mistake!" groaned Fred Garrison. He hated snakes as much as he did poison. "It's certainly bad," declared Songbird Powell. "I wonder what we had best do?" "Has anybody got a pistol?" Nobody had, nor was there any weapon handy outside of a jackknife and a fishing rod. "If we only had a shot-gun," sighed Sam. "But we haven't one and we must do the best we can without it," answered Tom. "Songbird, supposing you try to charm 'em with some of that soothing poetry of yours. Or take a picture of 'em." "This is no joke," growled Powell. "I want my clothes." "Well, go ahead and take 'em—I shan't stop you." "I'm going to get another rock," said Sam. "Let us all get stones," suggested Tom. "Then we can throw together." This was thought to be a good idea, and soon the stones were secured and each cadet took careful aim. Three of the snakes were hit, one quite seriously. These retreated, but the other snakes remained as defiant as ever. "There must be a nest under the rocks," said Tom. "Were that not so I am sure the snakes would leave at once." "I've got another idea!" cried Fred. "Why didn't we think of it before?" "I haven't thought of it yet, Fred," grinned Tom. "What is it?" "Let us take our fishing rods and tie one fast to another. Then we can turn the boat around and go fishing on the rocks for our clothes." "That's the talk," rejoined Powell. "A good idea, Fred." Three of the rods were pieced together, making a fishing pole over thirty feet long. The boat was then swung around, and while two kept the craft in place the others went fishing for the clothing. The task was not so easy as it looked, and the snakes whipped around and hissed in a most alarming fashion. More than once they had a coat or other garment on the pole only to drop it again. But they persevered and soon had everything on board but Fred's shirt and one of Tom's shoes. "Here comes the shirt," cried Tom, at last, and landed the garment in the bow of the rowboat. "And a snake with it!" screamed Sam. "Look out, everybody!" Sam was right, the snake was there and in a trice was whipping around under the seat. "Stamp on him, Fred!" cried Tom, and Garrison, who had his shoes on, did so. Then Tom caught the reptile by the tail and flung it into the lake. After this there was but little trouble in getting the remaining shoe, and with this aboard they sent the rowboat out into the lake and lost no time in finishing their dressing. "This was a truly horrible experience," was Sam's comment, after the excitement had died down. "Gracious, I feel as if the snakes were crawling around me this minute!" "Don't say that," said Fred with a shudder. "You make me feel as if there was another snake in my shirt." "The best thing to do is to forget the snakes," put in Songbird Powell. "Let us row around to the other side of the lake." All were willing, and soon the vicinity was left far behind. Then they came to where a fair sized brook flowed into Bass Lake, and here they came to anchor and began to fish, while Powell took several photographs. "I have always found it good fishing near a brook like that," said Tom. "The fish come around looking for food from the brook." Tom's remark was evidently true, for in less than an hour each of the boys had a good sized string of fish to his credit. In the excitement of the sport the cadets forgot all about the adventure with the snakes, nor did they pay much attention to the flight of time until Fred Garrison glanced at his watch. "Gee Christopher!" he ejaculated. "What time is it?" asked Powell. "Half-past four." "And we promised to be back at five-thirty!" put in Sam. "We'll have to hustle, fellows." "Oh, we can get back in an hour easily enough," put in Tom. "But we've got to clean out the boat and clean up ourselves," came from Fred. "Come, fellows, wind up and put away your hooks and poles." He started and the others followed. Then Fred and Powell took the oars, and the return to camp was begun. Not caring to go back the same way they had come, they sped along the opposite shore of the lake, where were located several coves and cliffs of rock. "This is as pretty as the other shore," remarked Songbird. And he began: "Oh, dreamy days in summer time, When purling brooks and shady nooks—" "If you start up again I'll jump overboard," interrupted Tom. "Do so, you need a cooling off," grunted Powell; but that was the end of the poetry for the time being. They were just passing one of the coves when they caught sight of a man sitting on an overhanging tree, fishing. "Hullo, what luck?" cried Fred, good-naturedly. "Fair," was the somewhat surly answer. Then, as the man caught sight of the others in the boat, he turned his head away. "That fellow looks familiar to me," ejaculated Sam, in sudden and strong excitement. "And he looks familiar to me, too," exclaimed Tom. "Do you think it is Arnold Baxter?" "If it isn't, it's his double," went on Tom. "Row the boat over quick, boys." "Who is this Arnold Baxter? The father of Dan Baxter?" questioned Fred. "The same, Fred." "The fellow who escaped from prison, or the hospital?" asked Powell. "That's the chap." Without delay the rowboat was turned in toward the overhanging tree. Scarcely had this been done when the fisherman pulled in his line with all speed, took up his string of fish and ran into the bushes between two cliffs of rocks. "He is getting out, and in a hurry too!" said Fred. "Hi, there, stop! We want to talk to you!" sang out Tom, at the top of his lungs. "Ain't got time," roared back the strange fisherman, and on the instant he was gone. "It must have been Arnold Baxter, beyond a doubt," said Sam. "If it was, what is he doing here?" questioned his brother. "He's keeping out of the reach of the law," answered Powell. "I suppose he thought he was perfectly safe in such an out-of-the-way place as this." "And he was fishing just to kill time," put in Fred. "I'd like to go after him and make sure," went on Tom. "What do you say, Sam?" "I am with you." "But we may be late—" began Fred. "Oh, Captain Putnam will excuse us when I tell him what delayed us." The rowboat soon reached the shore, and Sam and Tom leaped to the brushwood, where the trail of the vanished fisherman was plainly to be seen. It was decided that Fred and Powell should remain in charge of the rowboat, so that nobody might come and make off with the craft. Leaving their fishing outfits behind them the two Rover boys struck out through the bushes, and soon gained a narrow forest path running through the woods that skirted this section of Bass Lake. "I wish we could catch Baxter," said Tom, on the way. "It would be a feather in our cap, Sam." "We must be careful. More than likely he is armed, and he won't hesitate to shoot if he is cornered." "Oh, I know that. The most we can do is to follow him until we reach some place where we can summon assistance." The path led deeper and deeper into the woods and then along a fairsized brook. They kept their eyes wide open, but could see nothing excepting a number of birds and an occasional squirrel or chipmunk. Once they heard the distant bark of a fox and this was the only sound that broke the stillness. "It's rather a lonely place," said Sam, after a silence lasting several minutes. "I must say I shouldn't like to meet Arnold Baxter here alone." "For all we know he may be watching us from behind some tree." Several times they got down to examine the path. Footprints could be seen quite plainly, but neither of the boys was expert enough at trailing to tell whether these prints had been made recently or not. "It would take an Indian scout to make sure of these footmarks," said Tom. "They are beyond me." "Let us go a bit further," returned his brother. "Then if we don't see anything, we may as well go back to the lake." "Hark!" They listened intently and at a distance heard a crashing in the brushwood. "That sounded as if somebody had jumped across the brook, Tom!" "Just what I should say, Sam. Come on!" Again they went forward, a distance of thirty or forty yards. At this point the path seemed to dwindle down to little or nothing. "We have come to the end of the trail," was Tom's comment, as he gazed around sharply. "Do you see anything?" queried his brother. "Nothing much. One or two of the bushes over yonder seem to be brushed aside and broken." "What do you think we had best do now?" "Listen!" Both remained silent for several minutes, but nothing out of the ordinary reached their ears. "We may as well give it up, Sam. It is growing dark and there is no telling where this search would lead us. We might even get lost in the woods." They retraced their steps as quickly as they could to where they had left the rowboat. "What luck?" queried Fred. "None; he got away from us." "It's too bad," said Powell; and then the return to the camp was made without further delay. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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