"Chub—artist in chief," laughed Dick Travers, "also poet laureate. But don't forget, fellows, that I'm the official photographer."
"Dick's going to snap all the bears and wildcats before we shoot 'em," grinned little Tom Clifton—"real exciting sport, that."
"Oh, bother pictures and photographs," put in Sam Randall, scornfully. "It's hunting and fishing I'm after. Why, you know Bob Somers' uncle said——"
"Oh, that's the fifteenth time you've told us already," interrupted Tom Clifton. "Lots of grizzly and ginger bears in the mountains, and——"
"Huh! Who ever heard of ginger bears?" laughed Sam.
"Cinnamon, he means," put in Bob Somers, smilingly.
"Cinnamon—that's it—knew it was like some kind of spice," said Tom, with a wink. "But say, fellows," he added, glancing at the road, which curved toward the mountains, "I wonder what's the matter with that stage-coach. Hope it won't be a case of walk."
"Walk!" The poet laureate, seated on a box, leaned his substantial frame against the side of the station and groaned. "Don't you dare suggest such an awful thing, Tom Clifton," he said, severely. "I feel uncommonly tired—and hungry, too. Why, it's three hours since I had a square meal."
A gruff, hearty laugh rang out, as the station-master stepped from the door.
"You don't look, son, as if you needed another for a week," he remarked, pleasantly. "Reckon you fellows are going to stay a spell, jedging by the truck you've got." He waved his hand toward the baggage.