“I never heard a thing until the shot,” explained Tom’s chum. “I was sleeping soundly and I thought it was a clap of thunder. Jove! If you hadn’t come along!” and he shuddered.
“Well, shall we take it back to camp with us?” asked Bert.
“I’d like to,” spoke Tom, “but it’s a hard job to skin it in hot weather, and I’m afraid I couldn’t keep the hide. Besides the fur isn’t in very good condition. I guess we’ll just leave it where it is.”
Then, after a rest on shore, and talking over the incident, they got in the boat, Tom taking the big owl he had shot, and started back for their camp.
The next day they went off on another trip, exploring the woods and hills around the lake. They did more fishing, and looked for something to shoot, but saw nothing.
“But there hasn’t any more bacon disappeared,” said Dick one morning, as he was frying some for breakfast.
“No, I guess we got the lynx that took it,” said Tom. “I thought I detected the odor of fried bacon and eggs on him,” he added with a smile.
But if they imagined they were to be free from the prowlers of the woods they were mistaken, for, a few nights later, they were awakened by a noise near the place where they threw the odds and ends from their kitchen—empty tins, bits of food and the like.
“Something’s out there,” called Tom, as he and the others awoke.
“The hermit, maybe,” suggested Jack.