"Sure enough!" echoed Dick. "Come on, fellows; let's see what it looks like."
"Yes, I hear them at work. Get up, Dave," called out Sam; "I'll race you."
But the poet laureate shook his head. "Don't bother me. I'll follow you," he grumbled. "Pshaw! I wonder why—"
The others, however, were already some distance away, and the sentence was left unfinished.
The sound of the woodsman's axe rang through the forest, and, guided by it, Bob and his companions quickly reached the scene of their work.
The loggers seemed greatly surprised when a "parcel of youngsters," as they termed the boys, put in appearance.
"So yer have come out fur a spell in the woods, eh?" said a big, raw-boned individual, resting on his labors. "Never see a camp like this afore, eh? Take a look around, then, but don't shoot nobody with them guns."
"Tarnation dangerous things they be, in the hands of a young un," put in another; "know'd a feller, once, what had his hand clean blowed off by a small chap."
"A regular Zeke Tipson," whispered Sam.
"Tote yourselves around, youngsters," said the first logger, kindly; "and, if you hev a mind, stay and grub with us."