“What’s the prospect for the day, fellows?” Steve asked in a loud voice, as he sat up, after throwing aside his blanket.

It was morning, though the sun had not yet shown up. Three other heads appeared in view instantly, for the sleepers had been satisfied to cuddle in their warm coverings, on account of the chill of the night, which must have gradually crept into the tent around the early hours.

“Looks to me as though it hadn’t rained much after all,” Bandy-legs announced.

“T-t-things a little w-w-wet out there,” remarked Toby, who had hastened to thrust his head part way through the opening near which he lay; “but it’s all r-r-right, fellows, because I c’n see b-b-blue s-s-sky overhead.”

They were soon dressed, and ready to begin the business of the day. The camp fire was not hard to start, thanks to their wisdom in procuring plenty of dry fuel when they had the chance; and breakfast began to send out appetizing odors that excited their appetites though that was hardly necessary, since normal boys are always in condition to do their share of eating.

As usual they talked of various things while they sat around, each in his favorite attitude, disposing of the meal.

Bandy-legs seemed to have something on his mind, which he took this opportunity for venting, for when a little lull occurred in the conversation he turned to Max, and went on to say:

“After all we forgot something yesterday, Max.”

“That so, Bandy-legs? Well, I hope it wasn’t such a big thing that it’ll upset any of our plans.”

“T-t-tell us what?” Toby ventured, as well as he could, considering how full his mouth was of food.

“Oh! you’re not in this, Toby,” the other assured the stutterer; “and I’m not much s’prised at me forgetting, but it’s queer Max should, because he nearly always remembers.”

“Then it must have been something connected with the little excursion the two of us took yesterday?” Max guessed.

“Just what it was,” said Bandy-legs. “We didn’t think to ask Mrs. Ketcham about whether they kept a bull or not; and you know we said we would, because that might explain the awful growling noise we heard and which sounded like an escaped lion roaring.”

Max laughed softly.

“I admit that we didn’t bother asking her about it, Bandy-legs,” he remarked; “but that was because there was no need.”

“But why?” insisted the other, greedily.

“Oh! I happened to see the bull myself,” replied Max, quietly.

“Pretty good evidence, that, I’d say,” chuckled the amused Steve; “and so far as I c’n tell, your lamps are in good condition, Max. Seeing is believing, they say.”

“And you didn’t even bother to tell me, either; was that just fair!” the aggrieved Bandy-legs wanted to know.

“Well,” Max told him, “it happened when you were helping Mrs. Ketcham do something with the eggs, and I guess I must have forgotten all about it afterwards, because we had a lot of other things to talk about. But happening to look out of the window in the direction of the barn I just glimpsed the heavy-set head of a big Jersey bull sticking out of a hole that must have been made in his stall so as to give him air. He was sniffing, as if he knew there were strangers around; but when I looked again he had drawn his head in, and so I forgot all about him.”

Toby heaved a disappointed sigh.

“That knocks all my c-c-chances of g-g-gettin’ an old he lion this trip!” they heard him mutter.

“Well, did you ever?” ejaculated Steve, staring hard at the other; “just think of the nerve of him, would you, expecting to bag a terrible man-eating lion in a trap like that! Honest now, I really believe Toby here’d be happy if he could only go home in a few days with a whole menagerie trailing behind him elephant, rhinoceros, camel, lion, tiger, and a ring-tailed monkey bringing up the rear.”

“Oh! is that so?” Toby asked him, with a pretended sneer on his face; “and while you’re about it, Steve, would you be so k-k-kind as to tell me what sort of a m-m-monkey that is? I never saw one in all my l-l-life.”

“I guess you’ve got me there, Toby,” laughed Steve; “because I never have, either, but I should say it was an ordinary monkey that could tie his tail up in knots whenever he wanted to keep it out of mischief, just like you turn up your trousers on a wet day.”

They kept things humming until the meal was done; for every fellow had a desire to make his opinion known.

“Now what’s the programme for to-day?” asked Max, as they untwisted themselves from their Turk-like sitting positions, and stretched to their full height.

“I’ll tell you what I’m m-m-meaning to do,” said Toby, “after we get d-d-done the breakfast d-d-dishes. F-f-frogs!”

“Oh! I see, you’re worried about all that chorus work they kept up last night, and mebbe you think there were some who sang off-key, which bothers your musical ear, so you want to pick ’em out, and even things up,” and Steve grinned as he said this, because he did not have as high an opinion of Toby’s accomplishments in the line of music as he might.

“I’m not pretending to have any such c-c-classical n-n-notion,” the accused one indignantly declared; “it’s a c-c-case of dinner with me. I l-l-like frogs’ legs, and they l-l-like me first-rate; so when things agree that way, what’s the sense of k-k-keepin’ ’em separate?”

“No use at all, Toby,” admitted Steve, as though he had seen a great light, “and if you feel like growing a pair of frogs’ legs in place of the ones you’ve got now, why, I wouldn’t throw a thing in the way. Only I warn you it would be dangerous practicing singing frog songs by daylight.”

Toby did not answer this thrust, only sniffed, and turned away.

Each of the others had a number of things scheduled for attention on this morning. The camp was in pretty good trim by now, but there always seems to be something that can be done in order to make it more cheerful; and Max was one of those fellows who like to potter around, making improvements.

Steve wanted to wander over in the direction of the farmhouse, and tried to find some good excuse for going; but the milk supply promised to hold out for the day, and they certainly would not need more eggs until the next morning.

The fact of the matter was he had heard the accounts of how Max and Bandy-legs had been so splendidly treated by Mrs. Ketcham with more or less envy; because it happened that Steve was passionately fond of doughnuts of the old-fashioned New England cruller kind; and he hoped the farmer’s wife might still have a nest of the same in her big stone crock.

He even suggested that possibly Bandy-legs might like to go with him, so as to take a picture of the big watchdog that had given him such a lively time, in order to keep the adventure green in his memory. But having other things laid out for that morning to keep him busy, the other chum respectfully but firmly declined to be coaxed into making a four mile tramp, when there was really no need of it.

So poor disappointed Steve had to give up for that day his hope of obtaining any of those choice doughnuts.

“And chances are,” he was heard to mutter to himself as he started to get busy with something or other, “they’ll be clean eaten up by another day; but that’s always my luck when doughnuts are around. It’s too mean for anything.”

However Steve was too good-natured a fellow to remain gloomy very long at a stretch, and in ten minutes they heard him trolling a comical ditty as he worked away, showing that his “doughnut fever” had calmed down sensibly.

Meanwhile Toby after awhile made ready to wander over in the direction of the pond where that frog chorus inspired him with high hopes of reaping a bountiful harvest.

He had arranged a long stout pole, with a short line and a hook at the small end. This latter he ornamented with a piece of bright red flannel some two inches square and supplied by Max, which he was wise enough to tie securely to the shank of the hook, well up from the barb, but so it concealed the point.

He also carried the trouting basket slung over his shoulder by the canvas strap, and made sure that his hunting knife had a good edge to it, for he meant to fix the frogs as he took them, thus saving himself more or less of a burden in carrying the useless portions along with him.

“Steve, would you m-m-mind doing me a g-g-great favor?” Toby asked, as he stood there all ready to make a start.

“Sure I wouldn’t mind, Toby; what is it?” the other asked quickly.

“I’d like to c-c-carry your g-g-gun along with me,” said Toby.

“Not to shoot frogs with, I hope?” remarked Bandy-legs, in high scorn.

“K-k-keep out of this, p-p-please, Bandy-legs,” the other told him. “Steve knows I wouldn’t be g-g-guilty of doing that. But you see, a feller can’t tell what he might run up against these d-d-days, when there’s some k-k-kind of mysterious animal p-p-prowlin’ around. D-d-did you s-s-say yes, Steve?”

“You’re as welcome to the little Marlin as flowers in spring, Toby,” Steve told him; “and here, put several more shells in your pocket. Remember I’ve got a couple with buckshot loaded in the barrels right now. If so be you have to use the gun, be sure you know what you’re banging away at, because they’d have you up for murder if you hit a poor man with that charge.”

“Oh! I’ll be careful, sure I will, Steve; and t-t-thank you ever so m-m-much for lending it to me,” with which the overjoyed Toby shouldered the weapon, and started forth.

“Sure you know where the pond lies, do you?” asked Max; “and don’t forget that the camp is due southeast of the same. When you start home take your bearings, and if you’re in doubt even once, give us a whoop. Sometimes its possible to get lost in the woods, and that means a heap of trouble, don’t it, Bandy-legs?”

“Well, if you change that to a swamp I can say yes, all right, because I have been there, and know,” was the answer the query brought out.

But Toby had no such fear. He had spent considerable time in the open, so that he had learned many useful lessons, though he sometimes did allow himself to grow more or less careless. The pond was not so very far away but what he could make those by the campfire hear if he wished to shout; and surely a fellow must be a fool who could get lost under such conditions.

He made a bee-line through the woods, as nearly as the nature of the undergrowth would allow such a thing. Before long he had arrived in sight of the pond, which he was pleased to see covered many acres, and had the appearance of a splendid haunt for great big greenbacked frogs.

He could hear them grunting in various places, and this made Toby’s heart beat high with hope, for he was especially fond of the sport; though not cruel enough to have indulged in it just for the sake of killing the high jumpers; but the thought of the feasts to come spurred him on to do his best.

It is not always the easiest thing in the world to circumvent a shrewd old grandfather frog who has long grown suspicious of everything that walks on two feet. To crawl up close enough to him to softly push your pole far out, so that the red lure dangles in front of his nose and within a few inches, often requires considerable labor, and necessitates more or less skill as well.

Toby soon became intensely interested in his work. He would stand the gun up against a certain tree while he ranged the immediate shore, and possibly made several captures. It was not long before he was sorry he had bothered fetching the firearm at all, because there seemed no reason for doing so, and it made him many unnecessary steps.

His success was phenomenal, and for an hour he kept moving around the edge of the pond, the banks of which were heavily wooded for the most part.

By that time he had almost two dozen “saddles” in his trout creel, and it was beginning to bother him by feeling heavy; as well as slipping forward while he crept along on hands and knees, in order to get close to some monster who seemed suspicious, and had to be approached carefully.

Finally Toby fell into the habit of leaving the basket along with his gun. When he made a capture he would immediately kill the frog, and toss him over to where these things lay, if within throwing distance. Then, when ready to move further on it was his habit to dress those victims he had gathered meanwhile, after which he allowed himself to be tempted to proceed “just a little further.” That is always the way when frog-hunting; one may decide that he has really obtained enough for the time being; but then the conditions may never be as good again; and some of the spoils can easily be kept over until another day by immersing them in cold water.

So Toby toiled on, creeping, sliding, crawling, and doing about everything an active, ambitious hunter might, in pitting his powers against a wary species of quarry that had only to make one big jump in order to baffle all his plans.

Finally he knew that the creel would not hold many more of those big “saddles,” and accordingly Toby promised himself that he would surely stop when he had taken just five, in addition to those already bagged.

Three times he tossed a victim over to the bank, where he could see the gun and the basket. A fourth fell into his hands after a long steal through some reeds, and having put an end to the victim’s struggles, Toby turned to throw him to the bank, after which he would look for the very last frog he meant to take.

He did not throw that defunct jumper, however, although his hand was drawn back to make the cast. Instead Toby stood there staring, a wrinkle stealing between his eyes just above his nose, as it always did when the boy was puzzled.

“Now, what’s that m-m-mean?” he grumbled to himself, as he started post-haste toward the bank. “Mebbe Steve’s come out to s-s-see how I’m doing, and he’s j-j-just snuck my b-b-basket away for f-f-fun. There’s the g-g-gun aleanin’ ’gainst that tree all right, but where’s my b-b-bully lot of f-f-frogs, I want to know?”

And indeed it was just as Toby said; for the shotgun could be plainly seen where he had laid it, against the base of a tree-trunk; but the trout creel filled almost to the lid with the delicious white meat “saddles” of his many victims had mysteriously vanished!