"Well, go ahead and have it out, because I can see you've got something on your mind. Now, what's eating you, Toby?" the other complained.
"I only w-wanted to ask Max if it wouldn't be g-g-ood p-p-p-p"—whistle—"policy for us to mark the place where we leave the boats. There! do you get that, Bandy-legs?"
Toby asked this question triumphantly. Strange to say, that whenever he stumbled most in his speech, so that he was compelled to halt, and give that short whistle, Toby was able to finish what he was saying without a single hitch.
Steve often declared it reminded him of a country railroad crossing. There you beheld the warning sign: "Stop! Look! Listen!" and upon complying immediately heard the whistle, after which everything moved on smoothly.
"Toby, that's a sensible suggestion of yours," Max hastened to declare. "If so be you hide the boats away so well that we couldn't ever find the same again we'd sure be in a nice pickle, eh, Owen?"
"I should remark," the one addressed replied; "that tramp to Carson would be anything but a peach. And with all our camp stuff to tote along, too."
"Excuse me!" Bandy-legs exclaimed. "Make sure we'll mark the place, boys. Now, get a move on, Toby. Where will we find the rest of you when we get through our job?"
"Oh! somewhere around here," Max replied. "You see we've got a big job ourselves, taking down the tent, putting it up again some distance away from the water, removing every sign of our having camped here, and then disappearing. You'll be back long before we're done."
His prediction was fulfilled, for when half an hour later Toby and his companion showed up, the tent had vanished, Steve and Owen were carrying blankets, food, and cooking utensils deeper into the woods, while Max was working like a beaver close to the water's edge.
"What's going on now, Max?" asked Bandy-legs, as he watched the actions of his chum.