MORE MYSTERY IN THE AIR

It was nearly dark, after an afternoon of hard work for five members
of the party, and an afternoon of wonderful sport for Dick Prescott.

A crude raft had been built.  That part of the work had been easy,
and it was swiftly performed.  But three trips with the small
raft had been needed to bring over the tent, the supplies, the
push cart and everything belonging to the old camp.

Now the new camp stood pitched at a short distance from the cave,
but near to the edge of the lake.  The tent had been put up in
a natural clearing, behind a line of timber, so that the canvas
was not visible from the other side of the lake.

At trout fishing Dick had proved himself more than an expert.

Now that darkness was coming, Dick was bending over a low fire,
watching a frying pan in which four speckled beauties, well dipped
in batter, were sizzling merrily.

"This is the finest food I've ever had," declared Greg Holmes,
swallowing another mouthful of trout and leaning back with a contented
sigh.

"It certainly is great," agreed Dave Darrin.  "Fellows, I've wasted
some of my life in the past, for I never before knew the taste
of brook trout."

"I tried 'em once," said Reade, "but they didn't taste as fine
as these.  With trout, I've heard, a tremendous lot depends upon
the way they're cooked."

"Of course the cooking has a lot to do with bringing out the full
flavor," Dick admitted modestly.  "But, Tom, perhaps you hadn't
done any hard work before eating trout that time.  Exercise brings
hunger, and hunger is the best sauce that food can have---as we
all ought to know."

"Exercise?" repeated Tom, with a laugh.  "Yes; I've had that this
afternoon, all right.  You had me guessing when you told me you
had such an important job for me.  I didn't know, then, that you
wanted me to boss the raft building and transporting the camp
over here.  It was exercise, all right.  We ought to have taken
an entire day to it."

Dick rose with the frying pan, dropping hot trout on four plates
in turn, omitting only Holmes.

"You shall have a trout out of the next serving, Greg," Dick promised.

"I'm not worrying about myself," Greg returned.  "But are you
going to have anything left for yourself, Dick?"

"I'm not worrying about that, either," laughed Prescott.  "It
was mighty nice of you fellows to do all the work this afternoon,
and leave me to enjoy myself all the time at sport.  So the trout
belong to you fellows."

"I don't suppose you worked at all, Dick," said Tom quizzically.
"Of course whipping up and down a stream in rubber boots, over
stones and all sorts of obstacles, isn't anything like work."

"It would be pretty hard work for a fellow who didn't like trout
fishing, I suppose," Dick answered.  "But, to me, it was only
so much glorious sport.  Here's your trout, Greg.  Who else wants
some more?"

"Don't ask foolish questions," chuckled Danny Grin.

But at last the five boys had to admit that they had eaten their
fill out of the splendid result of Dick's afternoon of sport.
There were still several trout left, all cleaned and ready to
be dipped in the batter.

"Now, you sit down at the table, and let us wait on you," urged
Greg, going over to Dick.

Dave took hold of one of young Holmes' suspender straps, pulling
him back.

"You simpleton," expostulated Darry, "are you going to spoil Dick's
reward by letting a chump cook attend to the trout?  Dick wants
to cook his trout for himself, but we'll do everything else.
I'll appoint myself to make the coffee for all hands."

Dick soon had a pan full of trout ready for his own plate.  As
he seated himself at the table he was fully conscious of how tired
and sore he was from the afternoon of whipping up and down stream
after these handsome, speckled fish, but he was careful not to
admit his fatigue to the others, who, also, were very tired.

Dick had to fry a second pan of trout, eating the last one of
the lot he had caught, ere he found his appetite satisfied.

Then, with only the light of a lantern on the table, the boys
sat about sipping their coffee and feeling supremely contented
with their day of effort and its results.

"There are not so many mosquitoes over here," Tom announced.

"They haven't found us out yet," chuckled Danny Grin.  "They will
do so, later."

"I'm ready for bed any time the word comes," confessed Harry Hazelton.

"But, see here, fellows," suggested Dave soberly, "we're now right
in the enemy's country.  That is to say, we're on the same side
of the lake with the man of mystery and his companions, if he
has any.  I don't doubt that resentful eyes have watched the erecting
of this camp on its present site."

"Sorry to have hurt anyone's feelings," yawned Tom.  "Still, I
guess we've as much right here as anyone else."

"But the point is this," Dave went on.  "Last night some persons
must have crossed the lake in order to annoy us.  To-night we're
on the same side of the lake with them.  We'll be much more accessible
to the people who object so strenuously to our presence."

"Where did these unknown people find a boat for crossing the lake?"
queried Reade.  "We couldn't find one anywhere until the canoe
was left at our camp."

"Anyone might have a boat or canoe here, and keep it hidden easily
enough when not in use," Dave asserted.  "Just as we---have brought
our canoe up here and hidden it in the tent, for instance.  Now,
we'll all have to admit that we're extremely likely to have unwelcome
visitors here to-night?  Are we going to keep a guard?"

"It might not be a bad idea to keep someone on watch through the
night," Dick suggested.

"I'll stand the first watch trick," proposed Dave.  "It need be
only an hour long.  I'll drink some more coffee, and then walk
a while, so as to be sure to keep awake."

"I'll take the second trick," nodded Dick.

The schedule for watch tricks was quickly made up.  Then all but
Dave hastily sought their cots.  Darkness was not an hour old
when Dave was the only member of the camp awake.  Had the high
school boys been less healthy and sturdy their hearty suppers
might have summoned the nightmare, but they slept on soundly.

Dick, however, stretched, gaped, then sprang up when Darry called
him.  Some of the others, when their turns came, did not respond
as readily, and had to be dragged from their cots and stood upright
before they were thoroughly awake.

It was shortly after one o'clock in the morning when Tom Reade,
then on watch, stepped lightly into the tent, passing through
the round of the cots, shaking each sleeper in turn.

"Those of you who want to listen to something interesting, get
up instantly!" Tom exclaimed in a low voice.

Three boys drowsily rolled over, going immediately back into sound
slumber.  Dick and Dave, however, got up, pulling on their shoes.

"What's all that racket across the lake?" was Dick's prompt question
as he stood in the doorway of the tent.

"That comes from the former camp site," chuckled Tom.

"Guns!" cried Dave Darrin in amazement.

"It sounds like a big fusillade," Dick cried, as he stepped out
into the night.

"But surely no one can be trying to attack our camp, thinking
we are still there," Tom protested.  "We don't know any people
who are wicked enough to plan an attack upon our camp."

"No," Dick agreed.  "But this much is sure.  There are those who
dislike us enough to try to spoil our rest night after night."

Dave began to laugh merrily.

"I half believe it's Dodge and Bayliss," he remarked quietly.

"I don't," Reade objected.  "Both of them are too lazy to motor
up into the wilderness each night, over such rough roads, all
the way from Gridley.  No, no!  It's someone else, though who
it is I can't imagine.  If it were the man of the lake mystery,
or any of his people, they'd be likely to know that we're on this
side of the lake."

From the edge of the timber line near by came the sound of a crackling
twig, followed by a groan as of a soul in torment.

Wheeling like a flash, Tom Reade produced the pocket flash lamp.

Staring toward the boys, his face outlined between the close-growing
trunks of two spruce trees, were the startling features of a man.

"That's he---the Man of the Haunting Face!" came from Tom Reade
in a hoarse whisper.

"Then we'll get him!" cried Dick Prescott, leaping forward.  "Hold
the light on him!"