"Oh, I see a place over there," began Dave.
"We know what you mean," broke in Sam; "it's a fine place for a nap, lazybones, but we came out to hunt. Wish something would be kind enough to trot forth and be shot at."
"Too much noise," said Bob, laconically. "Let's go back and cook what we have. Then the Ramblers can ramble afterward."
The day was pleasant. A slight haze tempered the heat, so they sauntered slowly along, having decided to return by a different route. In about an hour's time, the party reached Wolf River at a point some distance below their camp.
A group of scrubby willows fringed the bank, the cool shade of which proved so inviting that Dave Brandon threw himself down in the midst of some tall grass beneath them.
"Won't budge for five minutes," he announced, firmly.
Plenty of small stones were scattered around. Stooping over, Sam picked up a number.
"I'll bet I can throw further than any fellow in the crowd," he challenged. "See that point over there, Chubby? here goes!"
"Great Cæsar!"
"My eye!"