“Elmer said we’d take a vote on it!”

“Yes, and tonight the next regular meeting of the Hickory Ridge Boy Scout Troop is scheduled to take place, so we’ll soon know where we stand.”

“Thith hath been a pretty tame thummer for the cwowd, all told, don’t you think, Lil Artha?”

“It certainly has, as sure as your name’s Ted Burgoyne. Our camping out was cut short, for with so many rainy days we just had to give it up.”

“Yeth, after three of the fellowth came down with bad cases of malarial fever. The mothquitoes were so plentiful.”

“That was some news to me to find out that a certain breed of mosquitoes are the only ones that give you the malarial poison when they smack you.”

“Huh! I used to think all that talk was a silly yarn, too, Toby, but now I put a heap of stock in the same,” declared the unusually tall and thin boy, who seemed to answer to the queer name of “Lil Artha;” he had evidently been dubbed so by his comrades as an undersized cub, and when shooting up later on had been unable to shake off the absurd nickname.

“But here we’ve still got a couple of weeks left of our vacation, you know,” remarked the chap called Toby, “and it’d be just a shame to let the good old summer time dribble away without one more whack at the woods, and the open air life we all love so well.”

“Toby, jutht hold your horthes!” exclaimed the one who lisped so dreadfully, and whose name was Theodore Burgoyne, though seldom called anything but Ted; “you let Elmer decide for the crowd. I’m dead certain he’ll lay out a joyouth plan at the meeting tonight that’ll call for the unanimous approval of every member of the troop to be found in thith sleepy town these dog days.”

“Hear! hear! Ted has got it down pat, let me tell you!” cried Toby Jones, who in the bosom of his family was occasionally reminded that he had once upon a time been christened Tobias Ellsworth Jones.

“Yes, you know our faithful and hard-working patrol leader to a dot, Ted,” added the long-legged scout, with a wide grin on his thin and freckled face. “Trust Elmer Chenowith to think up a programme that will meet with universal approval. But this is a pretty warm proposition for a late August day. Let’s sit in the shade a while, and cool off, while we’re waiting for Landy and Chatz to show up.”

Accordingly the trio of boys in faded khaki suits, that looked as though they had seen considerable service, proceeded to perch upon the top-most rail of a fence at a point where a splendid oak tree threw its wide-spreading branches over the road.

They were just outside the town of Hickory Ridge, and if you want to know where this usually wide-awake place was situated it might be well to refer to earlier books in this Series in order to ascertain all the interesting particulars.

These three lads belonged to the local troop of scouts, just then in a most flourishing condition. Under the leadership of Elmer Chenowith the Wolf Patrol of the troop had accomplished so many unusual things that a fever had taken possession of the town boys to become enrolled.

There was also the Beaver Patrol, with a full number, and the Eagle as well as the Fox seemed destined to finish their quota of eight members in the early Fall.

The three boys whom we have met on the road chanced to be among the original charter members of the troop. All of them belonged to the Wolf Patrol; for it often happens that fellows wearing the same totem are brought closer together than others.

Since it chances that the exciting incidents which we have started out to chronicle in the present story fell almost exclusively to the portion of the boys belonging to the original Wolf Patrol, it might be well to give a brief description of who and what they were, before going any further.

Elmer Chenowith, being the patrol leader, comes first in line. He was a manly lad, with many winning qualities that made him a prime favorite among his fellows. At one time his father had had charge of a vast farm and cattle ranch up in the Canadian Northwest, and while there the boy had learned a thousand things calculated to be useful to him in his capacity of a scout.

He had long ago received official authority from Boy Scout Headquarters to act as a deputy or assistant scout master, whenever the regular overseer, young Mr. Roderic Garrabrant, could not be present. Elmer filled the position in such a clever fashion that no one ever questioned his ability to play the part of guide.

Then there was Mark Anthony Cummings, who was looked upon as Elmer’s chum. He was the grandson of a famous artist, and there were those who prophesied that some day Mark would follow in the footsteps of his illustrious ancestor; for he would draw off-hand charcoal sketches of his chums, mostly in a humorous vein, that excited roars of laughter. Mark was also something of a musician, and had in the beginning been elected to fill the position of bugler to the troop.

Ted Burgoyne was afflicted with a dreadful lisp, on account of a hare-lip, so that as the boys used to say if offered a fortune he could get no closer to the real thing when dared than to say “thoft thoap.” But then Ted was a marvel in his way, for he had more knowledge of medicine than all the other boys of the troop combined; and on this account they often called him “Doctor Ted,” or “Old Sawbones.”

In cases of snake-bite, fainting, cramps, near-drowning, cuts from the camp axe or hatchet, gun-shot wounds, broken bones, or, in fact, anything likely to happen to campers, Ted was what Lil Artha always called “Johnny-on-the-spot,” though Toby could never pin him down to saying “which spot.”

Toby Jones was really the “funny” boy of the patrol. His grandfather being one of those Zouave veterans, who had accompanied Colonel Ellsworth to Washington when the war between the States broke out, and saw the latter shot in Alexandria, Virginia, while taking down a Confederate flag, nothing would do but that the boy must bear that venerated name and so he was christened Tobias Ellsworth Jones.

Toby was ambitious. His leaning lay in the line of aeronautics, and he was always trying to invent some sort of aeroplane that would discount all the efforts of such men as the Wright brothers. The dreadful fate of Darius Green and his famous flying machine had no terrors for Toby, though his chums were always warning him to beware.

He had, on several occasions in the past, attempted to show off with one of these ambitious contraptions. Those who have read some of the preceding volumes of this Series know what ludicrous results came about because of this over-vaulting ambition on the part of Toby. But he was not one whit discouraged, and often declared that unless his life were cut short he meant to see that the name of the Joneses went “ringing down the ages” as one of the most illustrious since the days of Paul Jones, the American who fought sea battles in the Revolutionary War.

Lil Artha, in reality Arthur Stansbury, was reckoned a good scout, and a loyal companion who could both play a joke and take one when it was aimed at him; he was rather fond of photography, and addicted somewhat to harmless slang.

The sixth member of the original Wolf Patrol was a Southern boy, Charlie Maxfield by name, though known simply as “Chatz.” He possessed all the traits to be found in boys who have been born and raised south of Mason and Dixon’s line, was inclined to be touchy whenever he thought anyone doubted his honor, talked with a quaint little twang that was really delightfully musical, and taken in all had grown to be a prime favorite with his fellows.

Chatz had one silly weakness which, though he tried hard to overcome it, would occasionally crop up. He was dreadfully superstitious, and believed in ghosts, which failing he laid to his having associated with piccaninnies when a youngster, and in some way imbibing their belief in the supernatural.

Yes, Chatz at one time had even carried a rabbit’s foot for luck, and to ward off evil spirits. The animal was said to have been killed in a graveyard in the full moon and it was a sure-enough left hind foot, too, which he believed to be a very important distinction, since no other would answer. Of late, however, Chatz said less about these things than when he first came to Hickory Ridge; and Elmer believed he was by degrees out-growing the foolish, superstitious beliefs of his childhood.

Two later additions to the Wolf Patrol were Henry Condit, known simply as “Hen,” and Landy Smith, otherwise Philander. The latter was a fat, good-natured chap, always perspiring, and who had a queer habit of placing his forefinger alongside his nose when puzzled or reflecting.

As occasional mention may be made in these pages to other members of the Troop, it might be well to simply give a list of their names and “let it go at that,” as Lil Artha would say.

The Beaver Patrol being full consisted of eight boys. Matty Eggleston was the leader, and after him came “Red” Huggins, Ty Collins, Jasper Merriweather, Tom Cropsey, Larry Billings, Phil Dale and “Doubting George” Robbins, a cousin to Landy.

There were also four members to the Eagle Patrol, with others about to come in. Jack Armitage filled the position of leader, and after him came Nat Scott, Ben Slimmons and Jim Oskamp.

Apparently, the three fellows perched on the Virginia rail fence had agreed to wait for others who were to join them in starting for the favorite “swimmin’ hole,” for their conversation betrayed this fact.

Lil Artha began to grow a little impatient. He wiped his perspiring face and in so many words gave his two chums to understand that if the laggards did not put in an appearance inside of ten minutes he meant to start without them.

“A fine lot of scouts Chatz and Landy are showing themselves to be, not keeping their word,” the tall boy grumbled; “there, didn’t you hear the clock strike ten? They were to be here not later than a quarter to the hour.”

“Oh! well, you know Chatz isn’t in a hurry,” chuckled Toby. “Fellows raised down in Dixie are used to taking their time. It’s the warm climate that does it, he told me. But speaking of angels and you hear their wings, they say; for unless my eyes deceive me there comes Chatz right now.”

“Yeth, and thauntering along like he might be away ahead of the time thet for meeting here. Chatz ith what I call a cool cuthtomer.”

When the fourth lad joined the bunch, there was a lot of good-natured badinage indulged in all around, after the manner of boys in general.

“Do you intend waiting any longer fo’ Landy?” asked the newcomer.

At that remark the other laughed uproariously.

“It makes me think of the full ’bus,” said Lil Artha; “when it stops to take on another passenger they all look cross; and he squeezes into a seat wondering why people will act so piggish; but let it stop again for another fare and he grumbles louder than anybody else.”

“Yeth, we’ve waited fifteen minutes for you, Chatz,” said Ted, “and it’d be only fair to give poor, fat Landy ten minutes more.”

Chatz immediately took out his little nickel watch and held it in his hand, just as though he might have been the judge at a sprinting match.

Before five minutes had crept past, however, there was a cry raised.

“Here comes poor old Landy,” said Toby, “mounted on his wheezy bicycle, and pegging for all he’s worth. Look at him puffing away, will you? He just knows he’s been keeping us waiting here ever so long, and that’s making him put on so much steam. Wow! he nearly took a header that time into the ditch. What a splash there would have been, my countrymen, if he played leap-frog into that mud-puddle!”

The boys sat there on the rail fence and began to greet the coming bicycle rider with loud shouts.

“Hit her up, Landy!”

“One good turn deserves another, you know.”

“A little more power to your left foot, or you’ll be in that ditch yet, Landy!”

“Oh! Landy, does your mother know you’re risking your precious old neck on that beaut of a wheel?”

The fat scout did not cease his exertions until he had reached the place where his four chums sat on the fence. Then they saw that while his round face was red, and the perspiration stood out in beads on his forehead, there was a drawn, almost a scared look on his countenance.

“Hey! what ails the fellow?” burst out Lil Artha, as though discovering that Landy was trembling more with some mysterious emotion than fatigue.

“Yeth, hurry up and tell uth what’s happened!” cried Ted Burgoyne, jumping off his perch, and hastening to the side of the panting boy.

Landy seemed to swallow something that may have been threatening to choke him. Then making a great effort, he managed to say a few words.

“Terrible thing’s happened, fellows! Knocks the reputation of the Wolf Patrol all to smithereens!”

Of course, this excited those four scouts as nothing else could have done.

“Has anything happened to Elmer?” almost shouted Toby.

“No, it’s Hen Condit!” answered Landy; “he’s gone and stole a lot of money from his guardian, and lit out, that’s what! And him belonging to the Wolf Patrol, too!”