sort of an animal was it, Thad?” asked Bumpus, still dancing about, and slapping himself in every conceivable place in order to keep his blood in circulation.

“Ask Jim, or Eli,” replied the patrol leader, who was really too busy just then getting some of his own clothes, to bother answering.

So the others turned to the two guides, who, not having removed any of their ordinary garments, did not feel the chilly night air as much as the lads.

“What was it banged us over, Eli?” asked Bumpus.

“Moose bull on the rampage!” replied the Maine woodsman, readily enough.

“A great big moose like that one we shot a while ago!” echoed Bumpus, showing great excitement. “Just my luck. Why, if he’d heard that I had a new gun, and was waiting to see what it could do, he couldn’t have been kinder. Just knocked at our door; and when nobody answered him he went away again, and by jinks! carried the door and the rest of the house with him. However in the wide world do you suppose that happened, Eli? I guess you ought to know, because you’re acquainted with the queer ways of these woods’ critters.”

“Never knew such a thing before in all my experience in woods,” asserted the older guide, shaking his head. “Fire was out, wind blowing wrong way for moose to smell human critters; and he must a thought he heard ’nother bull on the edge o’ ther water, wantin’ to fight him. Anyhow he jest natchrally tore right through that tent. It got fast to his horns, and he’s been an’ kerried it off.”

“Oh! what tough luck. If I’d only been on the watch I’d have the honor of shooting the first moose that took to wearin’ clothes human way,” groaned Bumpus.

“D’ye suppose, then, he’s keepin’ our bally tent; and won’t we ever set eyes on the same again?” asked Giraffe, holding his chilled hands out toward the fire that in Davy’s charge had been revived again until it sent out a genial warmth.

“Soon know,” remarked Jim, who had a personal interest in the matter, seeing that the purloined canvas belonged to him; though of course he knew that his employers would stand for any loss he incurred while working in their service.

He took the lantern, and started away. Thad had managed to get some of his clothes on by this time, and he hurried after the shorter guide, who seemed to know exactly in which direction to pursue his investigations.

“I can see something ahead there,” Thad remarked, presently.

“That’s the tent, all right,” remarked Jim. “I only hopes as how she ain’t too bad cut up now. ’Twas nearly new, and good, and stout; so I guess the ole chap he had some trouble gettin’ loose from the same.”

They found the tent where it had caught on a sprout, and torn free from the branching antlers of the moose, commonly called his horns.

“Not so bad after all,” remarked Jim, when he had examined the extent of the damage made by the tent’s being so forcibly carried off. “I kin patch it up easy, when I gits a chance in the boat, to-morry. Guess as haow we gut off right smart, all things considerin’, Thad.”

And the young scoutmaster was ready to echo these words, when he got to thinking how one of a dozen things might have accompanied the mad rush of the moose through the camp.

They never did know what had really caused his charge; whether some vindictive spirit of rage provoked the huge beast; or that he fancied a rival bull were challenging him to mortal combat, just as in the case of the fellow, whom Sebattis had previously lured within gunshot, with his seductive moose call.

The balance of the night gave them only broken sleep; because of the sudden and rude shock of this awakening. Bumpus hugged his new gun close to his side; and raised his head so often to listen, that both Giraffe and Allan vowed they would be compelled to chase him outside if he didn’t get busy, and capture some sleep right away.

Morning came in due time, and they found that little damage had been done by the rush of the moose, beyond some rents in the canvas of the tent.

Once more they started forth, and all that day plodded on, making many miles, and by evening reaching the spot where Jim said they could have their canoes and luggage carried over to Portage Lake by a man he knew, who owned a team and a wagon.

“How far is it across from here?” asked Thad, seeking information.

“Depends on what way yuh go thar,” replied Jim, “but I guesses as Nick he likes the three mile carry best. Start fresh in the mornin’ sure.”

After they had partaken of an early supper Jim went off to find his friend who owned the team, while the others busied themselves getting their belongings in as small a compass as possible, looking forward to what was expected to happen on the following morning.

Later, when Jim came back, he reported that he had interviewed Nick, and made all necessary arrangements with him to take the three canoes, and the stuff that went with them, across the carry in the morning. The boys were expected to walk and if necessary push at the wheels of the wagon, should it get stuck in a creek bed of soft quicksand.

The night passed quietly, and all hands managed to put in plenty of time sleeping, to make up for the loss of the previous one. In the morning the loud “whoa” of a stentorian voice announced the arrival of the expected team. They proved to be oxen instead of horses, and once the canoes, and other stuff, had been loaded on the big low wagon, the journey commenced.

Slow progress was the order of the day. Giraffe grumbled, but it did no good. And it was really noon when they finally came in sight of the lake.

The canoes were gladly launched, a light lunch eaten, the teamster paid off, and then again the voyage was resumed under a favoring sky; for the air was bracing, and so far not a sign of the first snow storm had made its appearance, though the guides warned their charges to be prepared for the worst, as a downfall was nearly due.

A cold wind was blowing from the northwest so that the wise guides hugged the sheltered shore of Portage Lake, since the waves were of pretty good size, and the flying spray would be far from pleasant in such weather.

Finally they reached the place where the lake had its outlet into a small stream, that, after flowing for a number of miles, emptied into the Lower Lake of the great and famous Eagle chain.

On the shore of this lake then, they made their next camp. From the grave manner of Jim, the scoutmaster easily guessed that they must by now have entered the territory where Cale Martin, the slippery old poacher, held forth. Jim seemed to look about him more than before. He also started at the least unusual sound, showing that while he might try to disguise the fact, he was really nervous. Still, he did not give the slightest indication of showing the white feather, or backing down, before a dozen like Cale Martin.

Davy had purchased a little snapshot camera at the town below, and also some flashlight cartridges with which he wished to get some views of the group around the camp-fire at night. No one had made any effort to perpetuate such scenes which Davy declared were the very best part of the whole trip. And now that they had become fairly launched upon the journey he was aching to start into business with his new outfit.

Davy knew a little about taking pictures, although far from being an expert. He had never used flashlight powders, or cartridges before; and after reading all the directions carefully, he declared he felt prepared to take a picture that would be viewed with the greatest satisfaction in the world by all his chums, when this great Maine vacation were