“Are you with me, gang?” shouted Wally. “Onward to the rescue of our wandering brother!” He made for the back door, pushing through the crowd like a fullback carrying the ball to victory, followed by his eager team of tent-mates. Tent Four was on the round-up.
No sooner had they reached the road behind camp than the leader began giving directions, curtly and with precision. “Spread out, fellows, and we’ll cover a path on each side of the road. Keep in touch with my whistle—I’ll be in the center. Shout for Crampton at intervals, and we’ll soon have him back in the fold——What’s that?”
A low moan was heard behind him, just off the road.
“Help! Help!”
Wally bounded off in the direction from whence it came. His muscular legs cleared the low bushes like so many hurdles.
“Behind that big tree!” shouted Gallegher. The six boys dashed off after their leader, and found him staring down at a mournful figure sitting with his back to the trunk of a tall pine. It was Fat Crampton. His bulging cheeks bore the trails of tear-marks; he sat hunched amid the wreckage of his knapsack and accouterment, with the most woebegone look in the world.
“I’m lost in the woods,” he moaned. “I’ve been walking around for hours!”
“Why, you poor nut,” said Blackie, “if you had walked two steps further you would have tripped over the camp!”
Fat transferred his doleful gaze. “Oh, Blackie, is it really you? Say, I’m scared. I heard a bunch of lions off in the woods a minute ago, and I thought they were going to get me.”
“Lions, nothing!” The whole tent broke into a storm of laughter. “That was us! Rao-a-ow! Look out for us, Fat—we’re lions!”