THE SCREAM THAT STARTED A RACE

Yet even as the three boys dashed toward the two spruce trees
the light went out.

Tom pressed frantically on the spring of the lamp as he ran, but
the lamp gave forth a flickering gleam that was little better
than no light at all.

The long use of the lamp in the cave had weakened the storage
battery.

"Give us the light!" called Dave, as they reached the tree.

"Can't!  The battery's on a strike," answered Reade grimly.

Dick Prescott, who was ahead of his companions, now halted, whispering
to the others to do the same.

The man they sought had vanished.  No betraying sounds came to
indicate where he had gone.

"Dave and I'll stay here," whispered Dick.  "Tom, run back for
a lantern.  Hustle!"

Fifteen minutes of eager searching, after the lantern was brought,
failed to give any clue to the whereabouts of the man whom they
sought.

"This is more ghostly than human," laughed young Prescott.

They felt compelled to give up the search.  As they returned to
the camp the firing on the opposite side of the lake broke out
anew.  At the distance, however, it was not loud enough to disturb
the other three, who still slept in the tent.  Dick flashed the
lantern inside to make sure that the sleepers were safe.

At intervals the racket across the lake broke out anew.

"It's my turn to go on watch again," said Darry, glancing at his
watch by the light of the lantern.  "You two might as well turn
in."

"We'll dress and bring our cots out into the open," Dick proposed.
"You might as well have us, Dave, where you can get us instantly,
and ready for action, by just touching us on the shoulder."

But the night passed, without any further disturbances than the
occasional distant firing, and the rousing, every hour, of a new
watchman for the camp.

It was past seven in the morning when Dick finally turned out,
to find Greg and Harry busy preparing breakfast, while Darrin
still slumbered.

"Where are Tom and Dan?" Prescott asked.

"Look through the trees, and presently you'll discover them out
in the canoe," answered Greg.  "Tom simply couldn't wait any longer
to go out after bass."

"I'm going trout fishing, if I can do it without shirking," said
Dick, as he rose and stretched.

"And if no one kicks I'm going with you," added Darrin, opening
his eyes.  "How about it, Greg?  Are you and Harry willing to
do the camp watch this morning?"

Greg had turned around eagerly, seeing which, Hazelton broke in:

"Go right along with 'em, Holmesy, if they'll take you.  There
won't be much to do in camp after, the dishes are washed."

"But it's rather a shame to leave you alone," hinted Greg wistfully.
He wanted, with all his heart, to see some of the rare sport
that Dick had described, but he didn't want to be unfair to anyone.

"I won't be lonesome," protested Hazelton. "We have some good
books along, and I can read one of them."

"But what if the camp should be molested?" asked Greg.  "You know,
there is at least the Man with the Haunting Face, and there may
be others."

"Whoever tries to molest this camp will be molested in his turn,
I promise you," laughed Harry.  "I'm no weakling, so run right
along, Holmesy.  Even if serious trouble should arise, I have
this, you know."

He produced a long-barreled fish horn that he had used in celebrating
the night before the Fourth of July.

"Two or three loud blasts on this bugle would carry a long way,
and you fellows would know what I wanted," finished Hazelton.

"All right, then, I'll go," said Greg, his face beaming.

"We've trout flies in plenty, you know," Dick went on, "but we've
only two poles that are suited to trouting, so we'll have to take
turns."

"You may keep one pole all the time.  Dick," suggested Darry.
"Greg and I can take turns with the other pole."

"That will hardly be fair to you two," replied Dick, with a shake
of his head.

"It wouldn't be fair to the whole crowd to take your pole away
from you any part of the time," retorted Greg.  "Remember, Dick,
you are the expert trout fisherman of the party, and all the fellows
want some more trout.  We'll never forget those of last night."

Greg and Hazelton now had breakfast ready.  It was eaten rather
hastily, after which all hands fell to setting things to rights.

"Here, come out of the tent," called Hazelton, as Dick started
inside to use a broom there.  "You fellows are the providers,
and I can do the little housework that's left to do."

So Dick, Dave and Greg brought out their long-legged rubber boots
and got into them with little delay.  Then there came a sorting
of flies, and the rigging of lines and reels.  Within a few minutes
the three were ready to start out.

As they went up the stream Dick cut and trimmed two crotched sticks
on which to string the fish they might catch.

"That looks almost boastful," chuckled Dave.  "It looks as though
we thought it a cinch that we're going to get a lot of trout."

"It all depends on us," Prescott rejoined.  "The brook is simply
full of trout, that we can catch if we display the requisite amount
of skill.  The mystery to me is that this brook has escaped the
knowledge of the trout fishermen in Gridley.  Not even Mr. Morton
ever heard of this stream."

"Well, Mr. Morton can't be expected to know everything," argued
Greg.  "He's already the most capable sub-master in Gridley High
School and the finest coach the Gridley football squad ever had."

"He's also an A No.1 trout fisherman," Dick went on.  "Fellows,
we mustn't tell everyone about this trout stream, but Mr. Morton
is such an all around fine fellow that I think we owe it to him
to tell him, when we see him, just how to reach this brook."

"If the real estate men of Gridley knew of this place," laughed
Greg, "they'd buy up the ground around here and then sell bungalows
at fancy prices to amateur fishermen of means."

"And then the brook would soon cease to be a trout stream," retorted
young Prescott.  "A large proportion of the trout would be caught
within a few days, and the rest of 'em scared away to safer breeding
grounds.  The only way to keep a trout stream in working order
is not to let many people know about it.  It sounds selfish, but
it's good sportsmanship."

Dick soon halted, eyeing a pool so deep that its bottom could
not be seen.

"This looks like a good place to start in," he announced.  "I
believe I'll go a little way up stream, and then whip down past
this pool and below.  Now, talk only in whispers, if you can remember,
fellows.  Trout are shy creatures.  Has either of you ever fished
for trout before?"

Both Dave and Greg shook their heads.

"Then I think you had better watch me for a while, and catch some
of the knack of it," their leader advised.  "Notice particularly
how I whip.  If I get a nibble, then note, particularly, that
I don't make an immediate effort to land the trout.  I play the
line out a bit and let him play with the fly, and beat about and
get himself better imbedded on the hook.  When I am sure I have
him well hooked, then you'll see the peculiar motion with which
I bring him out of the water and throw him on the ground.  That
landing trick is one that you need to get just so.  Study it,
and develop it.  Don't be disappointed if you lose quite a few
trout.  You will lose them often until you get the hang of the
thing."

Some distance above the pool Dick stepped into the water.  He
walked along slowly, not stirring up much dirt from the bottom.
All the time he kept his line behind him, frequently lifting
it and whipping it into the water again.  The gayly colored flies
and the glistening spoon just above the hook flashed in the sunlight
every time he made a whipping cast.

Not twenty feet had Dick gone when he felt a sudden, violent tug.
With the true patience of the trout fisherman, Dick didn't become
at all  excited.  His hand on the reel, he let the line fly out
as the finny captive darted up stream.

Presently Dick played the fish in gently, then suddenly gave it
plenty of slack line.  These tactics were repeated, while Dave
and Greg almost danced in their eagerness.

Suddenly Dick flipped his pole sharply.  There was a swish of
line in the air.  Something speckled and glistening dropped on
the ground at least ten feet from the brook, where it lay floundering
and gasping.

"Hoo-ray!" yelled Greg, with all his pent-up enthusiasm.

"Do that again, Holmesy, and I'll chase you back into camp," warned
Dick, with his patient smile.  Then he stepped ashore, took the
trout from the line and impaled it on a stick, which he gave Greg
to carry.

Within two minutes there was another strike.  The same patient
tactics, and Dick had another trout---this time a two-pounder
as against about three quarters of a pound for the weight of the
first trout.

The third trout got away, despite the most careful handling, but
the fourth and fifth biters were soon landed.

"I can't stand this any longer," quivered Dave.  "I've got to
start in.  Where do you want me to go, Dick?"

"Better go about a quarter of a mile upstream," Prescott suggested,
"and then work down this way.  Greg can go along with you and
carry the stick for your string.  I'll look out for my own string."

For nearly half an hour Prescott saw nothing of his friends.
Then Dave and Greg came in sight.  Dick held up a string now numbering
eleven trout, some of them unusually large.

For answer Greg held up a crotched stick with not a single trout
dangling therefrom.

"There's more knack to this game than I can catch," muttered Darry
disconsolately, "but I'd give a good deal to get the knack of it."

"No man save the first trout fisherman of all ever learned without
a teacher," Dick assured his chum.  "Greg, you take a place farther
down the stream, and I'll stay with Dave and try to show him some
of the tricks.  You may have my pole and line, Greg, for I shall
be busy watching Dave."

Many a pull at his line had Darrin, and many a fish was lost ere,
under Prescott's patient instruction, he managed to land a trout
weighing about a pound.

"Whew!" muttered Dave, mopping his brow. "At this moment I believe
I feel prouder than any general who ever captured a city."

"You'll soon have the hang of it, now, Dave," was his chum's encouraging
assurance.  "Now, I'm going to hunt up Holmesy, and see if I can
show him some of the knack."

Greg proved a grateful though not very clever pupil.  He was all
enthusiasm, but the art of landing a trout appeared to him to
be one of the most difficult feats in the world.

"I don't believe I'll ever land enough to fill a frying pan,"
he said dejectedly.  "Dick, the fellows are depending upon you.
Take this pole and use it for the next hour."

Later in the forenoon Greg had one small trout on a stick he had
cut and trimmed for himself.  Dave Darrin looked almost triumphant
as he displayed three of the speckled ones.  Both stared in envy
at Dick's string of thirty-four trout.

"Of course it'll take a few days of patient study of the game
to enable you to make big catches," was Dick's consoling assurance.

"I'd put in all summer, if I were sure I could master the trick
in the end," said Dave.

Greg said nothing, but felt less resolute about it than Darrin
did.

"Why, it's only fifteen minutes before noon," cried Dave, glancing
at his watch.

"Then it's high time to be going back," nodded Dick, "in case
the fellows are depending upon us for their meal.  If Tom has
a lot of bass, though, we can store these trout in our new ice
box---the cave."

"And let the Man with the Haunting Face slip in there, after dark,
and help himself!" grumbled Darry.  "Somehow that idea doesn't
make any hit with me."

"Then we'll have to put in the afternoon," proposed Prescott,
"in building a log-lined pit in the ground and moving ice from
the cave to fill it.  Then we can keep our fish supplies right
up under our noses in front of the tent."

"That's a little more satisfactory in the way of an idea," nodded
Darry.

For the purpose of taking a short cut they soon left the brook,
going through a stretch of woods on their way to camp.

Hardly had these high school boys entered the woods when they
halted, for an instant, in intense consternation.

On the air there came to them a sudden scream.

"That was a girl's voice!" gasped Greg.

"Or a woman's," nodded Dick.  "We've got to-----"

Again a piercing scream, then more screams in two voices.

"Hustle!" finished Dick, as the three boys broke into a run in
the direction whence the sound of the voices came to them.