"Good, cap'n, an' John Yardsley won't forgit it. By the time yer gits back I'll hev a bite ter eat. With a storm a-comin', an' no tellin' what may be afore us, 'twouldn't do by no means ter go off on an empty stummick."
But Bob Somers had not waited to hear his last words. Although the morning's tramp had been a rather long one, he moved over the ground at a rapid rate, and, panting from his exertions, at length reached the camp just as the others came in.
"What's the matter, Somers, you look scared—any fierce rabbits get after you?" asked Nat Wingate, winking at Hackett.
"Yardsley's been robbed of his furs," said Bob. "Not one of 'em left!"
"Robbed?" echoed Nat, in astonishment. "How—when?"
"Whew! That's mighty funny!" exclaimed Sam Randall. "Robbed? I can hardly believe it."
"It's true!—Who wants to come along and help us trail the thieves?"
"Well now!" Hackett paused and a fierce expression came into his eyes. "After amusing himself at our expense, he's got a fine nerve to ask us to help him—still," he went on, "speak your little piece, Somers, and we'll decide."
This Bob did, briefly, and at its conclusion Hackett again spoke up. "I feel sorry for the old man," he announced. "I'll go. There's a chance for some excitement, too."
"So will I," added Sam Randall, eagerly. "Here come Chubby and the rest. Won't they be surprised?"