"What's that?" exclaimed Andy Lasher, jumping up from the side of Frank, where he had dropped to lend Jerry a helping hand.
"My camera's stolen! I placed it carefully behind that tree so nobody could step on it, and now the whole thing's disappeared!" said Will, almost choking with deep emotion.
"I bet that's the work of Pet Peters and the other fellows!" exclaimed
Andy, his freckled face showing dark signs of anger.
"Hey, don't forget about me!" bellowed a voice from the depths; "the blooming old pole turned round then, and I slipped back five feet. Hold her steady, you fellows, and give me a chance to climb out!"
"That's a fact. Come along, Jerry," said Frank.
So the imprisoned one crawled out, only too glad to once more plant his feet on solid ground.
"Talk to me about your trapeze acts, and your parachute drops, I guess I know all the sensations. And let me tell you I don't hanker after any more of the same kind. Now, what's all this row about your black box, Will?" cried Jerry, as he felt of his various joints to make sure he was all sound.
"It's been hooked while we were getting you out. That Pet Peters has made way with it. Oh! if he ever tears open the package that contains my beloved films, I'm just ruined. All my work for nothing; and they can never be replaced again."
"We'll get 'em, don't you fear," exploded Andy. "I'll run back to camp right away, and make him give 'em up."
"If you only would, I'd be ever so much obliged, Andy. Three dozen, yes, four now, of the finest scenes a fellow ever could take. Why, some of them are immense!"