"That way, we'll all have a fling at it during the summer," said Bob; "not once, but a couple of times, and the Rickham will never be left without an occupant."
"You fellows ought to have a daisy time," observed Phil Levins.
"It makes me feel real envious, boys," said Mr. Kimball of Boston, "but—well, I never handled a gun or fishing pole in my life—I'm more at home running over a column of figures in a ledger than I would be facing a grizzly—but, seriously, don't you think it's rather a risky undertaking?"
"Huh! I guess the Rambler Club can take care of itself," and Mr. Kimball laughed at the scorn which Dick Travers put into his tones.
[CHAPTER VII]
FUR, FIN, AND FEATHER
Four panting and tired boys came to a halt in the midst of a dense forest on the sloping sides of a mountain. Early that morning, Sam Bins had driven them as far as he could toward their destination.
Besides weapons and fishing-tackle, each hunter had a pair of blankets—rubber and woolen—and a water-proof canvas bag which contained tin dishes, a pair of moccasins, a compass, match-safe, and plenty of rope and twine, besides nails. Havens carried a lantern and small saw. All were provided with hatchets and hunting knives, and provisions were divided up among them.
Dave Brandon, in addition, carried a brand new paint box, and the official photographer his camera. Everything unnecessary had been omitted, yet the outfits strapped to their backs were not light ones.