"It sure is all to the pancake batter," observed Bricktop. "Well, I don't mind if I do have a little more of the white meat, if you insist,"

he added, though no one had asked him to pa.s.s his plate.

d.i.c.k laughed as he helped his chum to some choice bits. Matters were moving more slowly, now that the first edge of hunger was dulled, and the boys were taking occasional stops to make remarks.

"What's the program for this afternoon?" asked Walter, as he drained his coffee cup. "Are we going fishing?"

"Whatever you say," replied d.i.c.k, who, like a true host, always consulted the wishes of his guests. "We can fish, take a walk, or go out in the motor boat."

"The motor boat for mine," said Bill. "I want to get on a pile of cushions and take a snooze."

"Well, wouldn't that give you the nightmare!" came from Bricktop.

"You're getting lazier every day, Bill."

"Help yourself," spoke the sleepy youth, as he slumped from the table and stretched out under a tree.

"I guess a trip in the motor boat would suit us all best," observed d.i.c.k. "Hannibal 'Rastus, just fill up the gasolene tank, will you?"

"Oh, why wasn't I born rich instead of handsome," murmured Bricktop, who never would have taken a prize in a beauty show. "But my fatal gift of----"

"Cut it out!" cried Walter, throwing a pine cone with such good aim, that it went right into Bricktop's open mouth.

"Oh! Ah! Ug! Blug! Chug! Hum!" spluttered the discomfitted one. "Who threw that?" he demanded, when he could speak.

n.o.body answered, and, feeling in no mood to get up and chastise Walter, whose sly grin proclaimed him the culprit, Bricktop stretched out again.

"Hark! That sounds like a wagon coming," observed Fred, as he sat up, after a few minutes of silence.

"Guess it's the ice man," said d.i.c.k, for he had arranged to have a supply left at the camp. He believed in having all the comforts possible when he went into the woods.

"Doesn't rumble like an ice wagon," commented Bill.

"Sounds more like a load of steel girders," added Walter.

At this, d.i.c.k arose. He peered through the trees toward a seldom-used wagon road, which ran near the camp. He caught sight of something moving.

"It's a wagon, all right," he said, "but it isn't the ice man."

A few moments later a remarkable rig hove into sight. It consisted of a rattle-trap of a wagon, loaded with all sorts of sc.r.a.p iron, and drawn by a horse that looked as if it had escaped from the bone yard. It just crawled along. On the seat was a bright-faced youth, who was doing his best to excite the animal into a speed a little better than that of a snail. He jerked on the reins, called at the horse, and cracked his whip, but all to no purpose.

"It's no use!" he exclaimed, as he looked through the trees and caught sight of d.i.c.k and his chums. "He's got the pip, or something like that."

"Why, h.e.l.lo, Henry," called d.i.c.k. "What brings you away off here?

There's no sc.r.a.p around here."

"I thought maybe you boys might have had one or two that you'd sell cheap," said the young dealer in old iron, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.

"They're all too lazy to fight, except me," observed Bricktop, "and I'm too good."

"Stow that!" commanded Fred, making a pa.s.s at his chum, who jumped back out of reach.

"Aren't you quite a way from home?" asked d.i.c.k, as he went up and shook hands with Henry Darby.

"Yes, I am. But you see I'm driving around the country, collecting old iron. This is my dull season, and I took my oldest rig, and started off day before yesterday. I'm taking it easy--have to you know, on account of my horse's health. His delicate const.i.tution makes it necessary.

There doesn't seem to be much old iron about, and I've got this far, without picking up a full load."

"Why don't you give some to your horse. Iron is good for the const.i.tution," said d.i.c.k.

"I thought of it, but you see all the iron I have is in long pieces and sticks out all sorts of ways. If my horse swallowed any of it he'd have more fine points than he's got now. So I guess I'll keep him on grain."

"But you haven't told me why you're away off here in the woods," went on d.i.c.k. "Is there any iron about here?"

"No, not that I know of. I came to find you."

"To find me?"

"Yes. I have a telegram for you. I happened to stop in the village back there, and while I was making some inquiries in the post-office, which is also the telegraph station, a message came for you. The operator had no one he could send with it, and, as I happened to know where you were camping, I said I'd take it. He gave me a quarter for bringing it out, and so I've made some profit to-day."

"A telegram!" cried d.i.c.k. "Why didn't you say so at first? Give it here," and he held out his hand.

"I didn't want to scare you," said Henry. "I was breaking the news gently."

He handed over the yellow envelope. d.i.c.k tore it open, and, as he read the short message, he gave a start.

"No bad news I hope," remarked Walter.

"No, I guess not," replied d.i.c.k slowly. "But I've got to leave for home at once."

"Leave for home!" cried his chums.

"Yes. This is from dad. It says: 'Dear d.i.c.k. Come home as soon as you get this. Important.'"

CHAPTER II

A CHANGE IN PLANS

Following d.i.c.k's reading of the telegram there was silence among the campers. They all imagined something had happened to Mr. Hamilton, d.i.c.k's father, and they hesitated to give voice to their thoughts.

"Well, I'd offer to take you home in my chariot," said Henry Darby, with a suggestion of a smile, "only I know you'd be two days on the road.

Though it might be a good thing," he added "for your father would hear us coming long before he could see us, with the way this old iron rattles. I wish some one would invent noiseless sc.r.a.p iron."

"Do you--do you s'pose your father is--is hurt?" asked Walter, finally putting into words what all the others thought.

"Not a bit of it," replied d.i.c.k, stoutly. "Dad knows me well enough to say right out what he means. He wants me home, for some reason or other, but I don't know what it can be," and he looked at the telegram in a puzzled sort of way, as if the slip of paper would solve the mystery for him.

"Maybe--maybe he's lost all his money," suggested Frank "and you've got to give up the camp."