The Rambler Club's
Winter Camp
BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD
AUTHOR OF
"THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS"
ETC.
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMX
COPYRIGHT 1910 BY
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
[Illustration: "WE CAN'T GET THERE TOO SOON!"]
Introduction
"The Rambler Club's Winter Camp," though a story complete in itself,
deals with the further adventures of the jolly club whose acquaintance
we made in "The Rambler Club Afloat."
Although Nat Wingate has not always acted a good part toward Bob Somers
and his friends, they are generous enough to forget past differences.
An enforced vacation, due to the burning of the Kingswood high school,
gives the five boys an opportunity to accompany Nat and his friend,
John Hackett, on a winter camping trip.
Life in the wilds, amidst snow and ice, has its discomforts and
dangers, as well as charms, and many trying and exciting experiences
fall to their lot; and these they meet with a cheerful, courageous
spirit.
But this is not all; a series of happenings puzzle the boys, their
wonder and curiosity increasing, as one strange incident follows
another, until the mystery is eventually solved.
Their life in camp has done them a world of good; and they return home
full of pleasant and lasting remembrances. Some of the further outdoor
experiences of the same boys may be found in "The Rambler Club in the
Mountains" and "The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch."
W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD.
Contents
I. THE FIRE-BELL
II. THE BUCKET BRIGADE
III. OFF TO THE WOODS
IV. "UNDENIABLE FACT"
V. THE ROAD OF ICE
VI. MAKING CAMP
VII. THE FIRST HUNT
VIII. THE GUARDIANS
IX. A NEW SPORT
X. A SKATING MATCH
XI. A NIGHT ALARM
XII. THE WILDCAT
XIII. ON THE TRAIL
XIV. HUNTER AND TRAPPER
XV. A PRACTICAL JOKE
XVI. YARDSLEY'S TRAPS
XVII. SMOKE SIGNALS
XVIII. WHO TOOK THE FURS?
XIX. LOST IN THE SNOW
XX. WOLVES!
XXI. SUSPICIONS
XXII. THE FAWN
XXIII. BACK TO CAMP
XXIV. A QUARREL
XXV. SELF-DEFENSE
XXVI. SNOWBALLS
XXVII. A CAVE AND A BEAR
XXVIII. THE NOTE ON THE DOOR
XXIX. THE NEAR-BANDITS
XXX. BURYING THE HATCHET
XXXI. YARDSLEY'S LAST JOKE
Illustrations
"WE CAN'T GET THERE TOO SOON"
"HELLO!" EXCLAIMED ONE OF THE STRANGERS
WITH GUNS TIGHTLY CLASPED, THEY STARTED
DON'T WASTE A SHOT
HOW ABOUT THE STOREHOUSE DOOR?
The Rambler Club's
Winter Camp
CHAPTER I
THE FIRE-BELL
Bob Somers, in his room on the upper floor of Pembroke Hall, was busily
engaged in working out an algebraic equation. The cozy little study
adjoined his bedroom, and was situated almost underneath a tower which
rose above the surrounding trees. On the walls several engravings and
photographs were tastefully hung, while close to the desk before which
Bob was seated stood a table covered with the various odds and ends
which boys are apt to possess.
It was one of those cold, keen winter nights when the comforts of a
warm and cozy room seem especially attractive. The weather was clear,
but the streets were white with snow, and a slight breeze made the
tree-tops sigh and murmur.
Suddenly Bob Somers raised his eyes from the paper before him and
listened intently.
The booming of a bell came over the frosty air, now very faint, then
rising clearly, as the sound of the breeze sank to a low, droning
whisper.
"My gracious!" cried Bob. "The fire-bell!"
For a second time, the ominous notes pealed forth, two coming close
together, then, after a brief pause, seven in succession.
"Box twenty-seven! I wonder where it is."
The fire-alarm was seldom heard in the quiet little town of Kingswood,
and the sound made his pulse quicken.
He hastily opened a door and made his way to an iron staircase which
led to the tower. Up two steps at a time he bounded, until a small
square room was reached. It had windows on all sides and commanded an
extensive view of the surrounding country.
Bob Somers peered eagerly out at the icy winter scene. The limits of
the snow-covered grounds of Pembroke Hall were defined by a row of
electric lights on the highway. Beyond, several residences appeared
faintly against the sky, but nearly all else was lost in gloom. Myriads
of stars shone brilliantly.
A faint, hazy patch, as of smoke illuminated by an electric light,
appeared above a dark line of trees.
"That must be the fire," murmured Bob, in some excitement. "Great
Cæsar! It's near the schoolhouse."
Dashing down-stairs, he quickly donned his overcoat and hat.
"Fo' goodness' sakes, what am de matter?" inquired Peter Lexington, the
colored boy, in astonishment.
"There's a fire, Peter! Can't stop to talk now."
"Fo' de lub of goodness! a fire?"
The surprising intelligence seemed to deprive Peter of all movement,
and before he could utter another word, Bob was off.
In a moment, he had passed between the tall gate-posts at the entrance.
The air was sharp and keen. Great banks of snow, heaped up along the
sides of the street, shone brightly in the glare of electric lights.
As Bob Somers neared the scene, he learned to his astonishment that the
high school was on fire.
Kingswood, a wealthy community, had an excellent fire department. It
was equipped with a ladder truck and an automobile fire-engine, the
motor of which also operated the pumps.
The high school stood back from the street, surrounded by spacious
grounds. In the centre of the three-story stone building rose a cupola
of attractive design. About a hundred feet distant, the road was
bridged over a large pond.
Bob Somers, breathing hard after his run, mingled with the excited
groups in front of the school.
A cloud of whitish smoke partially obscured the building, its heaviest
portion being toward the western end.
"It's getting away from them, sure," said a man close by. "If they
don't hustle along that steamer from Rockville pretty soon the place is
a goner."
Breaks in the curling wreaths of smoke revealed a ladder leaning
against the wall and a line of hose entering the window above it.
The shouts of the volunteers rose above the continuous roar of the
Kingswood engine and the excited murmur of the crowd.
"That man is right," thought Bob, with a tremor of excitement; "I only
wish something more could be done."
From the midst of the crowd, at a point some distance away, rose a
peculiar shout, somewhat like the hooting of an owl.
Instantly Bob Somers threw back his head, and made a similar sound.
This was a special signal often used by the Ramblers to call each other.
"Hello, Dave Brandon!" cried Bob, lustily.
"Hello yourself!"
In a moment the stout boy hurried forward.
"Isn't it awful, Bob, to see the old school going up like this?" he
said.
"How did it start, Chubby?"
"Guess no one knows. Let's find the other fellows. Give a whoop, Bob!"
"Hello, Sam Randall!"
"Hello, Dick!"
"Hi, hi, Tom Clifton!"
In a few minutes, the Ramblers had managed to locate each other.
"Maybe we can save something yet," cried Bob. "Let's go into the
grounds."
There was no railing, consequently they had free access, and the frozen
crust presently began to crack sharply beneath their feet.
"Professor Hopkins is over there!" exclaimed Bob Somers. "He just came
out of the door."
Bob darted between the groups of people, with the others close at his
heels.
"Professor Hopkins!" he cried.
The principal, enveloped in a long coat, seemed almost overcome with
emotion. He was staggering along under a load of books.
"Somers!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, sir! We're going to try and save something!"
"I am ruined!" gasped Professor Hopkins, apparently not hearing his
words. "The fire is steadily gaining--my office is doomed."
"Come on, fellows!" shouted Bob.
The moment he reached the doorway, Professors Hughes and Ivins came
out, each carrying an armful of books.
"Don't go in there!" shouted the former, warningly; "you'll be stifled."
"If the Rockville engine was only here, Professor Hopkins' office might
be saved," exclaimed Professor Ivins.
"Boys!" cried Dave Brandon; "I've got an idea. We'll form a chain and
get water from the pond."
"Splendid, Chubby! You've struck it!" broke in Bob, enthusiastically.
"There are plenty of people around who ought to help us," added Dick
Travers; "it must be a double line--one to pass back the empty buckets."
The students turned toward the crowd.
"Who wants to join a bucket brigade?" yelled Dave Brandon.
"I do!" shouted one.
"Count me in," added another.
The crowd, as if ashamed of its former inactivity, became animated with
life. Strangely enough, it had not occurred to any one before that some
use might be made of the pond.
Dick Travers, Sam Randall and Tom Clifton, accompanied by several
others, started off in search of buckets. An axe was procured--then the
frozen surface of Deal's pond began to resound to the sturdy blows of
the volunteers.
In the meantime Bob Somers and Dave Brandon had entered the building.
Choking and sputtering, they reached the main corridor and saw bright
tongues of flame mingling with the smoke.
From the floor above came excited shouts and the sound of axes chopping
through rafters and beams.
Bob Somers and Dave Brandon did not care to tarry long. Their eyes
ached and choking sensations gripped their throats.
"Unless the fellows hurry up, it will be too late," gasped Dave, as the
two made their way out and stood upon the steps.
"Let's make a dash for the president's room, and get out some of his
things," cried Bob Somers. "Come on, Dave Brandon!"
Both boys again disappeared in the smoke-laden atmosphere.