"I knew it would come! What did I say, fellows? They're at their old tricks, all right!" cried Bluff. "Where's my gun?"
Frank understood, after that one moment of utter astonishment. He realized that it was a trick on the part of some one who must have crept into their camp while they slept. This unknown had fastened all the camp cooking outfit to a rope, and this in turn had been thrown over a limb of a tree, the other end being grasped by the jokers.
A series of pulls had carried that string of pans and kettles up into the air, where they jangled against each other as the cord was violently drawn up and then lowered suddenly.
Frank sprang forward. He could give a shrewd guess as to where the parties lay who took such delight in pestering himself and the chums, and he was just then in a frame of mind to visit severe punishment if he could only lay his indignant hands upon them.
He had not taken three steps when he measured his length upon the ground, while a chorus of heavy laughs announced that this was a part of the program on the part of those who had actually followed all the way from town on purpose to annoy them.
Another rope had been stretched across in front of the tents, with the idea of tripping any one, should they rush out in hot haste.
It was all in the game, and Frank, while he barked his nose and bruised his elbows and knees, knew full well he should have exercised a little more caution.
He sprang to his feet full of vim.
There was a dreadful crash behind that gave him a shock, until he realized that it must come from the cooking utensils being dropped in a heap as those who had held the other end of the cord let go in order to seek safety in flight.
Bluff by this time had appeared in view, hugging his pet repeater in his arms.