interrupted," continued Professor Zepplin, "the Black Mountains lie in Buncombe and Yancy counties—"

"Does Chops come from Buncombe?" interrupted Stacy.

"Again I say, they form a spur of the Blue Ridge," resumed the Professor unheeding the interruption, "and are a part of the Appalachian system. They lie between the French Broad River and its main tributary, the Nolichucky."

"Is this the Trolleychucky here at our feet, Professor?" questioned Chunky innocently.

Tad gave the fat boy a prod with the toe of his boot, whereat Stacy turned an indignant face to him.

"Mount Mitchell, Black Dome, Guyot's Peak, Sandoz Knob and Gibbe's Peak, including Smoky Bald and others, form the divide between the Tennessee and Catawba River basins. That, for the present, will be quite sufficient for the topography of the country. As you are no doubt aware, most of the rocks through this region are highly crystalline, but whether of paleozoic or azoic age, is not certain," concluded the Professor.

"Yassir," murmured the fat boy. Chops had been listening with wide open mouth and eyes, not understanding a word of what had been said, but being sure it was something of tremendous importance because he could not understand.

"Here comes the storm," cried Tad as a vivid sheet of lightning flashed up the pass, followed by a deafening peal of thunder.

Almost instantly the rain began to fall, and the boys scrambled for their tents, while Chops, wrapping himself in a blanket, crouched in front of the fire. From their tents the lads could talk to each other, the openings of the tents being close to the fire itself. They continued their conversation from the tents. By this time the rain was roaring on the canvas in a perfect torrent.

"It's going to be a good night to sleep," called Ned.

"I am not so sure of that," answered Tad Butler.

"I reckon it'll be a fine night for ducks," observed Chunky.

"Young man, that is not seemly language," rebuked the Professor.

"It's the truth. Isn't truth seemly?" demanded Stacy.

"You are evading the question."

"I beg your pardon, I'm not. I am bumping right up against it," retorted the fat boy, amid smothered laughter.

The roar of the storm soon made the boys sleepy, and a few minutes later the last of the party, except Tad, had turned in. Butler watched the storm for an hour, listening thoughtfully to the river and the rain.

"It is my opinion that we'll be having trouble before morning," he muttered as he threw himself down on his bed of boughs. He did not remove his clothes, as had the others, in which perhaps Tad Butler was wise.

Once more the Pony Rider Boys were well started on their summer's ride, led by Professor Zepplin, the tutor who had accompanied them on so many happy adventures in the saddle on their summer outings. The Professor, who, in spite of his sternness, was as much a boy as his charges, took a secret delight in their pranks and their noisy chatter.

Following their lively adventures in other fields, they had elected to explore the apparently more peaceful territory of the Blue Ridge Mountains. In fact, the Pony Rider Boys did not look forward to adventures here, but in this they were destined to be considerably surprised.

The Pony Rider party had made camp in a narrow spot in what was known as Smoky Pass, and were now facing a storm which Tad Butler believed promised to be a severe one. Nor in this belief was Tad one whit outside of the truth, for, as he listened, the storm steadily increased in fury. The present center of the rising storm appeared to be to the eastward of their camp, and already the ordinarily small stream at their feet was muttering ominously. Its waters, sparkling clear an hour before, were now muddy and swollen. Tad's observant "weather eye" also noted that the stream was full of drift and torn-off foliage.

Billy Veal, the guide, he observed, stood wide-eyed and shivering just beyond the fire, for Billy was wet, and he was afraid.

"Come in here," ordered Tad, and Billy obeyed with evident reluctance.

"Do you know of any place hereabouts where we might climb up the side of the pass?" Tad demanded.

"Yassir, nassir," chattered Veal.

"Well, which is it?" insisted Butler sharply.

"Nassir."

"Humph! Then, if we wanted to get out of this pass, and could neither go up nor downstream, what would you do, Billy?"

"Ah reckons Ah'd stay heah, sah."

"Pshaw!" grunted Tad disgustedly. Trying to wring information from Billy was far from satisfying. "Sit down in here where you can keep dry, and if the storm gets much worse let me know. I am going to turn in and get some sleep." Tad, who had risen to have a look at the weather, threw himself down again, for he was tired and sleepy.

The campground was very low, and, were the creek to rise much above its present channel, Butler knew that his party would come in for a fine wetting. However, this was not greatly disturbing to him, though he did not exactly like the idea of being shut up in that walled-in pass with no way of getting out save by following the stream either up or down. Tad quickly went to sleep and slumbered on unmindful of the roar of the storm. He was disturbed some three hours later by howls from the tent occupied by Stacy Brown.

"Oh, wow!" yelled the fat boy.

Tad Butler, like every other member of the party, was awakened by Stacy's yell. Chops sat shivering and regarding him apprehensively. He had never before heard Chunky howl, and the howl was terrifying to him.

"Go and see what is the matter with Mr. Brown," directed Tad.

Stacy's howls broke forth afresh.

"Hey! Stop that. What's the matter?" shouted Tad.

"I'm all afloat. I'm soused from head to foot," came the reply.

"Save you the trouble of taking a bath," answered Butler.

"I'll drown," wailed Stacy.

"Oh, stop it and get a boat," urged Ned Rector's voice.

"Why didn't you pile in hemlock boughs, as I told you to do, then you wouldn't have got wet," rebuked Tad. "Are you lying in the water?"

"Yes. What'll I do?"

"You'll get wetter, so far as I am able to see."

About this time Professor Zepplin in his pajamas was charging out of his tent. He was drenched in a second.

"Guide, isn't there a higher and drier place that we can get to?" demanded the Professor.

"Yassir. Nassir."

"We are in a pocket, Professor. We'll have to take our medicine," called Tad.

"I don't like my medicine so cold," wailed the fat boy.

"All hands had better dress," advised Butler. "I think we are about to experience some trouble."

"What do you think?" questioned the Professor.

"I think we are in for a ducking."

Tad put on a rubber coat, and pulling his hat well down, stepped out. By this time there was no fire. It had been drowned out, and the night was black. He could not see a thing, but the ominous roar of the creek was close at hand.

The boy went back to his tent and got a lantern. Emerging with this, a grim smile settled on the Pony Rider Boy's face as he surveyed the scene. The waters from the stream were swirling and eddying about the bases of the tents; the stream had left its former channel and pretty much all the former dry ground was covered with a thin coating of water. Professor Zepplin glanced about apprehensively.

"This looks serious," he observed.

"It does," agreed Tad.

"But what are we going to do?"

"I think we had better break camp and try to make our way out of this while we may," replied Tad. "The horses already are standing in water above their fetlocks. They'll be in it up to their bodies soon, at the present rate of rise."

"What does the guide say?" demanded Professor Zepplin.

"The guide isn't saying anything. Chops is too frightened to talk. Shall I give the orders, sir?" asked Butler.

"Yes, if you think best, Tad. Your judgment in these matters I have usually found to be sound."

"Turn out,