Bert Wilson at the Wheel. Duffield J. W.

were having the time of their lives.

      “Gee, it’s like flying,” said Frank joyfully.

      “It’s a heap sight better,” challenged Tom. “Can’t you make it go faster?” he asked of Bert.

      “I guess yes,” Bert shouted, as he put on more speed.

      The automobile darted forward like a live thing and the boys were enraptured by the rapidity of its motion. It almost seemed to them as though the “Red Scout” were standing still and all the scenery were flying past. Hardly did the farmhouses come in sight than they were passed and lost in the distance.

      Scores of timid little woodland creatures scurried away to the shelter of holes and empty logs, surprised and alarmed at the streak of red lightning that flashed by. Mother birds hovered protectingly over their fledglings, ready to defend them against the whole world if necessary, while excited squirrels scolded noisily from the treetops long after they had any excuse for it.

      On, on they rushed along roads over which giant trees met, past meadow lands where cattle grazed lazily, over bridges, past sparkling brooks that formed miniature waterfalls as they rushed over the stones – on, on!

      As they slowed up to take a sharp bend in the road they came face to face with another automobile dashing along at a reckless speed.

      Fortunately both Bert and the driver of the other machine kept their presence of mind. Before anyone had a chance to realize what was happening, Bert had swerved the Scout way over to the right side of the road. There happened to be a fairly deep depression on that side, so Bert had the choice of two evils. He had either to crash squarely into the other automobile or he had to run the risk of having his own machine turn turtle. He chose the lesser danger and ran into the ditch. However, it wasn’t as bad as it easily might have been, for only the front and rear wheels of one side of the car were in the depression. Even at that they had come within a hair’s-breadth of being upset.

      As soon as the boys could pull themselves together, they tumbled out of the car. The occupants of the other car were four men, who sprang out at once to see if they could be of service in any way.

      “I think we’d better improvise a lever,” Bert suggested.

      “That may look all right in print,” grumbled Bob, “but how are you going to do it?”

      “I know how we can work it all right,” said one of the men. “See those big stones over there? Well, the first thing to do is to bring them over here.”

      “Oh, I see what you mean to do,” Bert chimed in eagerly. “There are lots of big tree branches lying around. Looks as if they had been blown down in some storm. We can use them for levers.”

      “Guess you’ve got the right idea, son,” said the man who had first spoken. “Now let’s get down to business.”

      It was a work of time to place the stones in the right position and to pick out branches that would stand the strain. It proved a tremendous task to lift the heavy car. At times they almost despaired of moving it. However, it was that very desperation that gave them strength at last. Inch by inch, slowly, carefully, they finally forced the great car upward, until with a sigh of relief they realized that the task was finished.

      The boys dropped to the ground, exhausted by the unusual exertion. It doesn’t take very long, though, for strong, healthy boys to recover from any strain, however great; so in a few minutes they were again in the car and ready to start for camp. It was too late to go further, and after thanking the men for their help they started back – slowly this time.

      It was after dark when they reached the camp, and Mr. Hollis, although confident of Bert’s resourcefulness, was beginning to be slightly worried when the wanderers appeared at last upon the scene.

      In a very few moments the half-famished boys were seated at a most appetizing meal, to which they did full justice.

      The rest of the fellows listened with the greatest interest, while Tom related the adventure. Bert and Mr. Hollis at a little distance discussed the events of the day and planned to renew the trip on the following morning.

      It was only when everything was quiet in the camp and the boys were supposed to be asleep, that Tom, rising on his elbow, called out softly:

      “Hello. Are you asleep over there?”

      “Just turning the corner,” came a sleepy voice.

      “Well, stay on this side for a minute. I was just thinking that in that wild ride we never even looked for a place to pitch camp.”

      “Gee, that’s so,” came the voice, a little less sleepy this time. “Well, of all the boneheads we’re the limit. I always thought my head was hard, but now I know it’s solid. Oh, well,” and again the voice grew sleepy, “we’ll have plenty of time to-morrow to think of that. I’m too tired now. Good night. I’ve just got to – turn – the – corner.”

      Where Tom promptly joined him.

      CHAPTER III

      The Copperhead

      Bright and early next morning Bert awoke to find the sunbeams playing all over his tent. He noticed lazily what funny spots they made on Tom’s sleeping face. Then, with a start, he remembered that Tom had grumbled the night before because they would have to get up early to catch a mess of fish for breakfast.

      Thinking that he would wait a little while till Tom woke up, he rolled off his cot on to the floor so that he could command a view of the brook through the open tent flap. He had just made himself comfortable when an irritable voice hailed him from the direction of Tom’s cot:

      “That you, Bert? What are you doing awake at this unearthly hour?”

      “Same as yourself, I suppose,” came the calm reply.

      “Humph! Well, you’re not going to rout me out at five o’clock in the morning.”

      “Don’t be a bear, Tom. We’ve got to help the fellows catch that fish and you know it, so the sooner we start the better. A couple of the fellows are down there now.”

      “Oh, well, I suppose we’ve got to, then, worse luck. They probably will guy us unmercifully, too, about yesterday. It’s a wonder they didn’t, last night,” which was all the credit the boys got for trying to save the feelings of the reckless volunteers.

      As the two comrades ran swiftly down to the water’s edge, they noticed that Shorty – Philip Strong had been nicknamed Shorty because of his very small figure – was tugging hard at his line.

      “Got a bite, Shorty?” they shouted, when they came within hailing distance.

      “Bet your life, and it’s pulling like a good fellow, too.”

      “Better let me help; I’m stronger than you,” offered Bob, who was sitting a little distance down the bank and whose luck hadn’t been of the best up to that time.

      Now, a very sore point with Shorty was his lack of strength, and whenever anybody referred to it, no matter with what good intentions, he always bristled up as if at a personal insult. This morning that very touchiness proved to be his undoing, for, as he got to his feet, intending to inform Bob that he could do very well without any of his help, the fish gave a sudden jerk to the line that made Shorty lose his balance and tumble head-first into the water.

      The boys, convulsed with laughter, fished him up, dripping and sheepish. Without thanking the boys for their help, Shorty zig-zagged up to the tent, making, it must be confessed, a rather sorry figure. When they finally had managed to get the line up they found that the cause of Shorty’s undoing had escaped.

      “Poor little Shorty, he’s always getting into trouble,” one of the boys said when he had breath enough.

      Then, as the time was getting short, they all settled down in good earnest to their task and, before the camp was awake at half-past six, had caught a “corking mess,” as they expressed it.

      As each tent poured forth its several occupants, the fishermen took their mornings catch to the mess tent and went to report – some of them with sinking