hundred villagers, stood on the platform waving their hats and shouting their good-byes to the departing Pony Rider Boys. As the train pulled out, Stacy Brown was observed hanging over the railing of the rear coach wiping his eyes and pretending to weep, while the spectators laughed at the funny sight.

Mr. Perkins turned inquiringly to Tad.

"Well, Tad, I suppose this isn't a particularly happy occasion for you?" he said.

"Why not sir?"

"Don't you feel the least bit disappointed that you are not on that train yonder?"

"Of course I am disappointed, but I am satisfied that I have done right. That's the best sort of happiness after all. Don't you think so, Mr. Perkins?"

For answer the banker extended an impulsive hand, clasping Tad's in a strong, appreciative grip. Tad walked back with Mr. Perkins, leaving him at the latter's place of business, then the lone Pony Rider Boy strolled meditatively homeward.

Reaching the yard, Tad walked around to the stable, which he entered, and stepping into the stall of his pony, he patted the little animal affectionately.

The pony whinnied appreciatively.

"Well, old boy," said Tad, "you are disappointed just the same as am I. But we'll have a good many nice rides this summer. We'll ride out every night to fetch Deacon Skinner's cows home, and maybe we'll rope one now and then just to keep our hands in. Shall we have a little ride now just to forget, you know? All right, come along then."

The pony backed from its stall as if fully understanding the words of its master. A few moments later Tad was galloping away from town, the little hoofs of his pet mount throwing up a cloud of dust on the broad highway that led to the open country and the fresh green fields.

CHAPTER II

CAMPING ON THE PISCATAQUI

A full week had passed since the departure of the Pony Rider Boys from Chillicothe. During that time they had leisurely made their way toward their destination, having gone by way of New York and up Long Island Sound on a boat. Eventually they had reached Bangor, on the Penobscot, whence they proceeded in a northwesterly direction to Dover, a short distance from where they were now encamped on the banks of the Piscataqui river.

At Dover they had been joined by the guide who was to accompany them. The latter was Cale Vaughn, a raw-boned, jolly-faced Yankee, much more talkative than had been most of the guides on their previous wanderings. Cale, it was said, was the best woodsman in the north, a man who simply could not be hopelessly lost in the woods. Professor Zepplin was asking the guide about this same thing as they lounged at their campfire after having eaten their breakfast on this cool but glorious spring morning. The Professor wanted to know if it were possible for a man to be so good a woodsman that he could not be lost.

"If there is such a man I'd like to set eyes on him," answered the guide.

"Have you ever been lost in the big woods?" questioned Stacy, hoping to draw out some of Cale's experiences.

"More times than I've got hairs in my head."

"Then there isn't much hope for us after we reach the forest yonder," declared Ned Rector, nodding toward the faint fringe of deep green that lay to the northwest of them.

"It's easy enough to keep track of yourself if you follow a few simple rules," answered Vaughn.

"And what are they?" asked Walter.

"Water always runs down hill," reminded the guide with a significant smile.

"Eh? Of course it does," scoffed Stacy. "Did anyone ever see it run uphill?"

"I've known folks that thought it did," chuckled the guide.

"Why, I can show you watercourses where you'd be willing to stake your life the water was running in a certain direction, whereas it's going the other way."

"Humph!" grunted Chunky. "They couldn't fool me that way."

"You think so?" laughed Cale.

"I know so," retorted Stacy.

"Well, now suppose we were standing beside a stream, say like the river before us, only in a place where the direction of the current deceived you. I said the water was running that way, the way it does, and you declared it was moving in the other direction, how would you prove whether you were right or wrong?"

Stacy puffed up with importance.

"That's easy."

"Well, answer Mr. Vaughn's question," commanded the Professor.

"Why, I'd throw Ned Rector's hat into the water. If it floated that way, I'd win. If it floated the other way, Mr. Vaughn would win. In either case Ned would lose," answered the fat boy solemnly.

"You win," grinned the guide.

"He wouldn't win if he threw my hat in the water," growled Rector. "Don't let me catch you tossing my hat overboard."

"Oh, I'd see to it that you didn't catch me," jeered the fat boy.

"That's funny. Even Tad would have laughed at that," spoke up Walter.

"I am afraid Tad isn't laughing just now," said Ned.

"No, I'm laughing for him. Ha, ha, ha! Haw, haw!" brayed Stacy.

"You were speaking of getting lost," Professor Zepplin reminded the guide.

"Yes. Another important thing to keep in mind is that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. By keeping these things in mind you are likely to find your way."

"Provided you know where you are going in the first place," observed Stacy. "I don't. I'm lost before I find myself when I get in the woods."

"We will take a few lessons in woodcraft when we get into the spruce forest," promised Cale.

"By the way, we don't seem to be making much headway in that direction," answered Rector. "We have been loafing here for a whole day. Why the delay?"

"We are waiting for Charlie John," replied the guide.

Charlie John, it may be explained here, was a half-breed Indian whom the party was taking along to do the rough work, to bear the extra burdens, to help cut a path for them when they found themselves in a thicket too dense to permit the passage of the ponies. None of them, except the guide, had seen Charlie, but Cale said the fellow was all right so far as behavior was concerned, though Charlie was not overburdened with brains.

"We've got too much of that here already," replied Ned. "That's what's the trouble with our outfit."

Stacy strolled over to Rector, gravely snipped off the latter's hat and holding it top-up shook the hat vigorously.

"Nothing doing," said the fat boy, replacing the hat on the head of its owner, while Ned's face flushed, and the others laughed.

"I decline to be disturbed by Chunky's antics," howled Ned. "He thinks he's funny, but no one else does. When do you think that lazy half-breed will be along, Mr. Vaughn?"

"He should be here some time today," answered Cale. "If you boys want something to do why don't you go fishing? There's plenty of fish in the river here."

"Let Chunky do the fishing," drawled Ned. "It needs a lazy man to make a good fisherman."

"Oh!" cried Stacy, his face breaking out into a broad smile. "Now I understand. Remember that fine mess of trout that Ned caught when we were in the Rockies? I wish I could fish like that. I'd be willing to be called a lazy one."

"I know what you are going to get, young man," answered Rector, slowly getting to his feet.

"What am I going to get?"

"You're going to get the opportunity to prove whether you are lazy or not, for I'm going to throw you into the river right now."

"You can't do it," retorted Stacy belligerently.

"I'll show you whether I can or not."

The Professor opened his mouth to reprove the two boys, then closed it again, a smile curling his lips, causing the bristling beard to bristle still more fiercely.

With arms about each other, struggling, red of face, perspiring, Ned Rector and Stacy Brown staggered down the sloping bank towards the river, each striving with all his strength to get the upper hand of the