CHAPTER IX
OFF TO CAMP
“This must be a joke,” remarked Fenn, at length, after he had once more read the note. “Sandy Merton, or some of the other fellows, who want to have some fun with us, wrote that.”
“I think not,” said Frank, thoughtfully.
“Why?” inquired Ned.
“Some man wrote that,” went on Frank. “That’s no boy’s handwriting. There’s too much character to it. What are you going to do about it, Fenn?”
“Nothing, I guess. Of course, I’d sell my turtles and things, if I got a chance, for I think I’m going to collect different kinds of wood now, and——”
“What did I tell you?” interrupted Ned triumphantly. “I knew Fenn’s fad wouldn’t last much longer.”
“It would, if we weren’t going camping,” declared the stout youth, with vigor. “Only when I’m away there’ll be nobody to look after the things. Mother is afraid to feed ’em, and dad won’t, so if I had a good chance to get rid of ’em I’d do it. Only I wouldn’t do business with a fellow like this, who doesn’t sign his name, and who wants me to act as if I was leaving money in response to a black-hand note. I’ll not pay any attention to it.”