Leaping to the back of Bad-eye, Ned was off like a shot, tearing through the brush, headed toward camp. On the way he passed Professor Zepplin and Walter, nearly running them down in his mad haste.
"Got a rope?" he shouted in passing. "No," answered Walter. "Then get one and hurry around the bend. You'll be needed there in a minute. I'm going down into the stream from the camp."
The Professor, seeming to comprehend what Ned had in mind, turned and ran back to the camp.
Without an instant's hesitation, Ned Rector, upon reaching their camping place, put his pony at the bank where the two boys had gone over.
The little animal refused to take it. He bucked and the lad had a narrow escape from following where Tad and Chunky had gone a short time before.
"I've got to have a saddle. That's the only way I can stick on to drive him in, and we'll need it to hold to as well," he decided.
Every moment was precious now. Whirling the animal about, Ned drove him into the thicket where the saddles lay folded against trees.
It was the work of seconds for him to leap off and throw the heavy saddle on Bad-eye's back. The boy worked with the speed and precision of a Gattling gun. Yet he groaned hopelessly when he realized that his delay might mean the death of two of his companions.
Professor Zepplin arrived at the camp just as Ned had finally cinched the girths and swung himself into the saddle.
"Where—where is he?" gasped the Professor, now breathing hard.