[Illustration: TOM TOOK QUICK AIM AND FIRED.]
Tom Fairfield’s Hunting Trip
Or
Lost In The Wilderness
BY
ALLEN CHAPMAN
AUTHOR OF “TOM FAIRFIELD’S SCHOOLDAYS,” “TOM FAIRFIELD’S PLUCK AND
LUCK,” “THE DAREWELL CHUMS SERIES,” “BOYS OF PLUCK SERIES,” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
BOOKS FOR BOYS
BY ALLEN CHAPMAN
=TOM FAIRFIELD SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
TOM FAIRFIELD’S SCHOOLDAYS
TOM FAIRFIELD AT SEA
TOM FAIRFIELD IN CAMP
TOM FAIRFIELD’S PLUCK AND LUCK
TOM FAIRFIELD’S HUNTING TRIP
=THE DAREWELL CHUMS SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
THE DAREWELL CHUMS
THE DAREWELL CHUMS IN THE CITY
THE DAREWELL CHUMS IN THE WOODS
THE DAREWELL CHUMS ON A CRUISE
THE DAREWELL CHUMS IN A WINTER CAMP
=BOYS OF PLUCK SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
THE YOUNG EXPRESS AGENT
TWO BOY PUBLISHERS
MAIL ORDER FRANK
A BUSINESS BOY’S PLUCK
THE YOUNG LAND AGENT
CUPPLES & LEON CO., PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
Copyright 1915, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
TOM FAIRFIELD’S HUNTING TRIP
Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE BIG SNOWBALL 1
II. A SURPRISE 9
III. THE PLOT 16
IV. HOLIDAY FUN 25
V. OFF TO CAMP 33
VI. DISQUIETING NEWS 41
VII. AT CAMP 48
VIII. THE FIRST HUNT 54
IX. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 62
X. AT CAMP NO. 2 68
XI. MORE PLOTTING 76
XII. A LUCKY SHOT 85
XIII. THE CHANGED SIGN 94
XIV. THE BEAR’S TRAIL 103
XV. LOST IN A STORM 113
XVI. THE DESERTED CABIN 120
XVII. SPIED UPON 129
XVIII. LOST AGAIN 138
XIX. THE CAPTURE 147
XX. A PRISONER 155
XXI. SKEEL REVEALS HIMSELF 163
XXII. AN ANXIOUS SEARCH 171
XXIII. DEFIANCE 178
XXIV. THE ESCAPE 186
XXV. THE SHOT 195
TOM FAIRFIELD’S HUNTING TRIP
CHAPTER I
THE BIG SNOWBALL
“Well, Tom, it sure is a dandy plan!”
“That’s right! A hunting trip to the Adirondacks will just suit me!”
“And we couldn’t have better weather than this, nor a better time than
the coming holiday season.”
Three lads, who had made the above remarks, came to a whirling stop on
their shining, nickeled skates and gathered in a small ring about the
fourth member of the little party, Tom Fairfield by name. Tom listened
to what was said, and remarked:
“Well, fellows, I’m glad you like my plan. Now I think----”
“Like it! I should say we did!” cried the smallest of the three lads
grouped about the one in the centre. “Why, it’s the best ever!” and
he did a spread eagle on his skates, so full of life did he feel that
crisp December day.
“Do you really think we can get any game?” asked Jack Fitch, as he
loosed his mackinaw at the throat, for he had warmed himself by a
vigorous burst of skating just before the little halt that had ended in
the impromptu vote of thanks to Tom.
“Get game? Well, I should say we could!” cried another of the lads.
“What do you know about it, Bert Wilson?” demanded Jack. “Were you ever
up there?”
“No, but I’m sure Tom Fairfield wouldn’t ask us up to a hunter’s camp
unless he was reasonably sure that we could get some kind of game.
I’m not very particular what kind,” Bert went on, “as long as it’s
game--a bear, a mountain lion, a lynx--I’m not hard to suit,” he added
magnanimously.
“Well, I should say not!” laughed Tom.
“But say!” exclaimed the youngest member of the quartette--George Abbot
by name. “Do you really think we can bag a bear? Or a lynx, maybe? Or
even a fox? Are there really any big animals up there, Tom? What sort
of a gun had I better take? And what about an outfit? Do you think----”
Tom reached out and gently placed a gloved hand over the mouth of
the questioner, thereby cutting off, for the time being, the flow of
interrogations.
“Just a moment, Why, if you please,” he said, giving George the nickname
his fellow students at Elmwood Hall had fastened on the lad who seemed
to be a human question mark.
“Well, I--er--Buu--er--gurg----”
But that was the nearest semblance to speaking that George could
accomplish. His companions laughed at him. He finally made a sign that
he would desist if Tom removed the hand-gag, and when this had been
done, Jack proposed a little sprint down to one end of the small lake
on which they were skating.
“No, we’ve had enough racing to-day,” declared Bert Wilson. “I vote Tom
tells us more about this hunters’ camp, and what we expect to do there.”
“All right, I’m agreeable,” Jack said.
“Are they----?” began Why, but a look from Bert warned him, and he
stopped midway in his question. His chums well knew that if George once
got started it was hard to stop him.
“Well, there isn’t so much to tell that you fellows don’t know already,”
began Tom slowly. “In the first place, there are three hunters’ camps,
not one.”
“Three!” exclaimed Jack and Bert, while George looked the questions he
dared not ask.
“Yes. You see they belong to a party of gentlemen, a sort of camping
club. The camps are about five miles apart, in the wildest part of the
Adirondacks.”
“Why--three?” came at last from George. Really he could not keep it
back any longer. Tom did not seem to mind.
“Oh, I suppose they wanted to change their hunting ground,” he answered,
“and they found it easier to make three camps, or headquarters, than to
come all the way back to the first one. And the club is pretty well off,
so it didn’t mind the expense.”
“But you don’t mean to say we can use all three of ’em?” cried Jack,
incredulously.
“That’s the idea,” Tom said. “We’re just as welcome to use all three
camps as one. They’re all about alike, each with a log cabin, nicely
fitted up, set in the midst of the big woods.”
“That’s jolly!” cried Bert.
“And aren’t the men themselves going to use them?” George wanted to
know. Again he went unrebuked.
“Not this season,” Tom Fairfield explained. “The club is sort of broken
up for the time being. Some of the men want to go, but they can’t get
enough together to make a party, so they had to give up their annual
holiday outing this year.
“A business friend of my father’s belongs to the club, and he mentioned
to Dad that there was a chance for someone to use the camps. Dad
happened to speak of it to me, and I--well, you can imagine what I did!
I jumped at the chance, and now you know almost as much as I do about
it.
“I’ll tell you later just where the camps are, and how we are to get
to them. We want to get together and have a talk about what we’ll take
with us. School closes here day after to-morrow, and then we’ll be free
for nearly a month.”
“And won’t we have some ripping old times, though!” cried Jack.
“Well, I should say yes!” chimed in Bert.
“Tell you what let’s do, fellows!” broke in George. “Let’s go up to the
top of that hill and have a coast. Some of our lads from Elmwood are
there with the bobs, and they’ll give us a ride. I’ve had enough of
skating.”
“So have I,” chimed in Jack.
“I’m with you,” agreed Bert, stooping to loosen his skates, an example
followed by Tom Fairfield.
“I hope this snowy weather holds,” spoke Jack. “But are you allowed to
shoot game when there is tracking snow?”
“I don’t just know all the rules,” said Tom, “but of course we will do
what is right. I guess we’ll have plenty of snow in the mountains, and
cold weather, too.”
“It’s getting warm here,” observed Bert. “Too warm,” for the variable
New Jersey climate had changed from freezing almost to thawing in the
night, and the boys were really taking advantage of the last bit of
skating they were likely to have in some time.
There were not many besides themselves on the ice of the lake when they
started from it, heading for the big hill not far away--a hill whereon
the youth of Elmwood Hall, a boarding school near the Jersey state
capital, had many jolly times.
When Tom Fairfield and his chums, talking about the camping and hunting
trip in prospect, reached the hill, they found it deserted--that is, by
all save a few small town boys with their little sleds.
“No coasting to-day,” observed Jack, ruefully.
“No, it’s getting too soft,” added Bert, digging his foot into the
snowy surface of the hill. But the small boys did not mind that. With
the big lads out of the way, smaller fry had a chance.
George Abbot picked up a handful of snow and rolled it into a ball. As
he noticed how well it packed, he exclaimed:
“Say, fellows, another idea!”
“Ha! He’s full of ’em to-day!” laughed Jack.
“Get rid of it, Why,” advised Tom. “Don’t keep ideas in your system.”
“Let’s roll a whopping big snowball,” proposed George, “and send it
down hill. It will roll all the way to the bottom, and pick up snow all
the way down.”
“It will be some snowball when it gets to the bottom,” observed Tom.
“This snow does pack wonderfully well,” he added, testing it.
“Come on!” cried George, and he started to roll the ball. In a few
minutes he had one so large that it needed two to shove it about, and
as it gathered layer after layer of snow, it accumulated in size until
the strength of the four lads was barely sufficient to send it slowly
along.
“Now to the top of the hill with it!” cried Tom, and it was placed on
the brink. The boys held it at a point where it would not interfere
with the small coasters. It was poised on the brink a moment.
“Let her go!” cried Tom.
“There she goes!” echoed Jack Fitch.
They shoved the ball down the slope. On and on it rolled, gaining in
momentum and size with every bound.
“Look at it!” cried George. “Say, it sure is going!”
“And it’s getting as big as a house!” excitedly shouted Bert.
“It will roll all the way across the lake,” said Tom, for the frozen
body of water was at the foot of the hill, and it did seem as though
the snowball had momentum enough to carry it over the ice.
A moment later the ball was at the foot of the hill, and rolling
along with increasing speed. And then, so suddenly that the boys were
startled with fear, something happened.
Out on the ice drove a horse and a cutter, containing a man. He had
left the road and taken a short cut across the ice. And now he was
directly in the path of the immense, rolling snowball.
“Stop! Stop!” cried Tom Fairfield. “Look out!”
But it was too late to stop, even if the man in the cutter had heard
him.
On rushed the great ball directly toward the horse and vehicle.