Dave Porter on Cave Island: or, A Schoolboy's Mysterious Mission. Stratemeyer Edward

another story,” came from Shadow. “Once on a time a Dutchman heard that a certain lady was a society belle. He wanted to tell his friend about it, but he couldn’t think of the right word. ‘Ach, she is von great lady,’ he said. ‘She is a society ding-dong!’”

      “Wow!”

      “There’s a ringer for Shadow!”

      “Shadow, you want to frame that joke and hang it in the woodshed.”

      “Put it down in moth-balls until next summer, Shadow.”

      “Oh, say, speaking about moth-balls puts me in mind of another story. A man – ”

      “Was it a young man, Shadow?” asked Dave, calmly.

      “Maybe it was a very old man,” suggested Phil.

      “Was he clean-shaven or did he have a beard?” queried Roger.

      “Never mind if he was young or old, or clean-shaven or not,” cried the story-teller. “This man – ”

      “Was he an American or a foreigner?” demanded Gus Plum. “That is something we have simply got to know.”

      “And if he was knock-kneed,” put in Sam. “I hate love stories about knock-kneed men. They aren’t a bit romantic.”

      “Who said anything about a love story about a knock-kneed man?” burst out Shadow. “I said – ”

      But what Shadow was going to say was drowned out in the sudden report of a shotgun, – a report so close at hand that it made nearly every student present stop in alarm.

      CHAPTER IV – THE SCHOOLBOY HUNTERS

      “Dave, what did you shoot at?”

      It was Phil who asked the question, for he had been the only one to see Dave raise his shotgun, take quick aim, and fire into the brushwood lining the river at that point.

      “I shot at a rabbit, and I think I hit him,” was the reply. “I’ll soon know.” And Dave skated toward the shore, less than twenty yards away. He poked into the bushes with the barrel of his gun and soon brought forth a fat, white rabbit which he held up with satisfaction.

      “Hurrah!” cried the senator’s son. “First prize goes to Dave! He’s a fine one, too,” he added, as the students gathered around to inspect the game.

      “Thought you said you wouldn’t shoot anything less than an elephant,” grunted Buster.

      “The elephant will come later,” answered Dave, with a smile.

      “I’d like to get a couple like that,” said Gus Plum, wistfully.

      “Maybe that will be the total for the day,” was Sam’s comment. He had gone wild-turkey shooting once and gotten a shot at the start and then nothing more, so he was inclined to be skeptical.

      “Oh, we’ll get more, if we are careful and keep our eyes open,” declared Dave. “I saw the track of the rabbit in the snow yonder and that made me look for him.”

      Dave’s success put all the students on the alert, and they spread out on either side of the stream, eager to sight more game.

      Less than two minutes later came the crack of Gus Plum’s shotgun, followed almost immediately by a shot from Buster Beggs’ pistol. Then a gray rabbit went scampering across the river in front of the boys and several fired simultaneously.

      “I got him! I got him!” shouted Gus, and ran to the shore, to bring out a medium-sized rabbit.

      “And we’ve got another!” cried Sam. “But I don’t know whether Shadow, Ben, or I killed him.”

      “I guess we all had a hand in it,” said Ben. “We all fired at about the same time.”

      “What did you get, Buster?” questioned Chip Macklin.

      “I – I guess I didn’t get anything,” faltered the fat youth. “I thought I saw a squirrel, but I see now that it is only a tree root sticking out of the snow.”

      “Great Scott, Buster! Don’t shoot down the trees!” cried Phil, in mock dismay. “They might fall on us, you know!” And a laugh arose at the would-be hunter’s expense.

      On the students skated, and before long reached a point where the river was parted by a long, narrow strip of land known as Squirrel Island, because squirrels were supposed to abound there.

      As they reached the lower end of the island Dave held up his hand as a warning.

      “I think I saw some partridges ahead,” he said, in a low voice. “If they are there we don’t want to disturb them. Put down the hamper and take off your skates, and we’ll try to bag them.”

      His chums were not slow in complying with his commands, and soon the crowd was making its way toward the center of the island, where grew a dense clump of cedars. They had to work their way through the brushwood.

      “Ouch!” exclaimed Shadow, presently.

      “What’s the trouble?” whispered Roger.

      “Scratched my hand on a bramble bush,” was the reply. “But it isn’t much.”

      “Be careful of your guns,” cautioned Dave. “Don’t let a trigger get caught in a bush or you may have an accident.”

      “There they are!” cried Ben, in a strained voice. “My, what a lot of ’em!”

      He pointed ahead, and to one side of the tall cedars they saw a covey of partridges, at least twenty in number, resting on the ground.

      “All together!” said Dave, in a low, steady voice. “Fire as you stand, those on the right to the right, those on the left to the left, and those in the center for the middle of the flock. I’ll count. Ready? One, two, three!”

      Crack! bang! crack! bang! went the shotguns and pistols. Then came a rushing, rattling, roaring sound, and up into the air went what was left of the covey, one partridge, being badly wounded, flying in a circle and then directly for Roger’s head. He struck it with his gun barrel and then caught it in his hands, quickly putting it out of its misery. The other boys continued to bang away, but soon the escaping game was beyond their reach.

      “A pretty good haul!” cried Dave, as he and his chums moved forward. “Three here and the one Roger has makes four. Boys, we won’t go back empty-handed.”

      “Who hit and who missed?” questioned Sam.

      “That would be a hard question to answer,” returned Phil. “Better let the credit go to the whole crowd,” and so it was decided.

      “Well, there isn’t much use in looking for any more game around here,” said Dave. “Those volleys of shots will make them lay low for some time.”

      “Let’s go into camp and get lunch,” suggested Buster. “I’m as hungry as a bear.”

      “Were you ever anything else?” questioned Ben, with a grin, for the stout youth’s constant desire to eat was well known.

      They tramped to the south shore of the island, and there, in a nook that was sheltered from the north wind, they went into temporary camp, cutting down some brushwood and heavier fuel and building a fire. Over the flames they arranged a stick, from which they hung a kettle filled with water obtained by chopping a hole through the ice of the river.

      “Now, when the water boils, we can have some coffee,” said Roger, who was getting out the tin cups. “And we can roast those potatoes while the water boils,” he added.

      “What about some rabbit pot-pie, or roast partridge?” asked Buster.

      “Oh, let us take all the game back to the school!” exclaimed Ben. “Just to show the fellows what we got, you know.”

      “That’s the talk!” cried Gus. “If we don’t, maybe they won’t believe we were so lucky.”

      “Yes, let us take it all back,” chimed in Chip Macklin.

      All but Buster were willing