“If you don’t mind breaking your own neck, you needn’t worry about ours,” said Dave Ferris; “we’ll stay here while you take a little spin across country,” grinning wickedly. “Of course, if you should find a good camp location in the meantime, you could claim all the glory”—this last condescendingly.
Before Bob had time to retort, a cry of “Bert, Bert Wilson!” caught the boys’ attention, and they turned in time to see a young fellow take a flying leap over one of the fences and land in the midst of a group of excited, welcoming friends.
“Make believe we’re not glad to see you, Bert. We thought you wouldn’t be able to get off this year.”
“Tom Henderson spread that report. Where is he?”
“Wait till I get at him.”
“He ought to have a ducking,” and other undeserved threats were hurled at poor Tom’s innocent head.
“Hold on, fellows,” said Bert, laughing; “Tom wasn’t to blame. I didn’t know myself that I could make the camp till yesterday.”
At that moment the maligned Tom dashed up, nearly upsetting his friend in an ecstasy of delight.
“You’re a brick with a capital B and the best kind of a sight for sore eyes,” gasped Tom, getting his breath back by degrees. “I never was so glad to see anyone in my life. And you came just in the nick of time, too, to help us out.”