“Maybe it’s that mysterious man,” came from Ned.
Bart had raised his rifle, and, a moment later some one emerged from the thick trees, and stood on the edge of a little clearing, confronting the boys. The newcomer was a youth of about their own age, and on his back was evidently a camping pack. He carried a gun, and at the sight of Bart, with half-raised rifle, the other slowly brought his weapon around for quick use.
But Fenn, who had been staring at the latest arrival with eager eyes, suddenly cried out:
“It’s William Perry! Don’t you know him, fellows? The lad whose mother took us in at the time of the blizzard—William Perry—whom we found in a snowbank in New York!”
“William Perry?” faltered Bart, lowering his rifle.
“William Perry?” came from Ned and Frank, in a sort of a chorus.
“The Darewell Chums!” exclaimed the other lad, while wonder spread over his face. “The Darewell Chums here?”
Fenn started toward William on the run. He was soon shaking hands with him, and leading him over to where Ned, Frank and Bart stood.
“However in the world did you get here?” asked Bart. “Are you lost, too?”