"What didn't he have?" scoffed the guide. "We have to eat fast or we wouldn't get enough to keep up our strength."
"I guess I don't get any more than my share," retorted Stacy. "I have to work for that, too."
"Well, I'm going to bed," announced Ned Rector. "You fellows may sit up here and tell ghost stories all the rest of the night if you want to. It's me for the feathers."
"You're right, Ned," agreed Tad. "We are a lot of silly boys to be so upset over a fellow who has had a crazy nightmare. Professor, don't you think you ought to give Stacy some medicine?"
"Yes, give him something to make him sleep," chuckled Walter.
The boy was interrupted by a roar from Ned Rector's tent. Ned was shouting angrily. He burst out into the circle of light shed by the camp fire, waving his hands above his head.
"They've got mine, they've got mine!" he yelled, dancing about with a very good imitation of the ghost dance so recently executed by the fat boy.
"Got what?" demanded Dad sternly, striding forward.
"Somebody's stolen my rifle. The spook's robbed me. It's gone and all my cartridges and my revolver and——-"
The camp was in an uproar instantly. Chunky was nodding with satisfaction.