did. The only thing they can do is to burn him out of house and home,

like we did last time, and force him to go off somewhere and steal a new outfit.”

“What’s the reason we can’t go with them?” said Joe, suddenly.

“I reckon you can. You know more about the woods than some of that party do, and you might be of some use to them.”

“Well, look here, Mr. Morris: Will you fix up our boat in good shape, give her a coat or two of paint and take care of the things that we shall be obliged to leave behind us?”

“I will, sartain,” answered the guide, readily.

In an instant both the lockers were opened, and Joe Wayring, snatching up a camp basket, started post-haste for the hotel to hire a skiff and purchase a small supply of provisions for the trip, leaving Roy and Arthur to select the outfit. The tent and the most of their heavy cooking-utensils were to be left behind. They were very useful articles, of course, but they were not absolutely necessary to their existence, or even to their comfort. Besides, the skiff that would be provided for them would not carry as much “duffle” as the roomy boat they were going to leave in the guide’s keeping. Their bows and arrows, blankets, the knapsacks that contained their extra clothing, and the frying pan must go, of course; but every thing else was left behind.

While they were awaiting Joe’s return, Mr. Swan and his party came up, got into their boats and pushed away from the beach. Mr. Morris pointed out two stalwart gentlemen in shooting costume, who, he said, were the owners of the stolen guns. They seemed to be in very bad humor, and the boys did not wonder at it.

“I shouldn’t like to be in Matt’s place if those men get their hands on him,” said Roy, in a low tone.

“Nor I,” answered the guide. “They sw’ar they’ll pound him before he goes to jail, and they look to me like fellers that will keep their word.”

“Say, boys,” exclaimed Mr. Swan, as he backed water with his oars and brought his boat to a stand-still at the stern of the skiff, “can’t you stay here till we come back? We want your evidence.”

“We’ll be around, you may depend upon that,” returned Roy. “But we’re not going to stay here, if you will let us take part in the hunt. Joe has gone up to the hotel after a boat.”

“Oh! All right,” said Mr. Swan. “Them’s two of the lads that had the battle in the dark that I was telling you about,” he added, addressing himself to the owner of the lost “scatter-gun”, who was his employer.

“Well, I must say that they are plucky fellows, and that they deserve better luck,” said the gentleman, returning the military salute which the boys gave him from sheer force of habit. “I hope their skiff can be easily repaired, Mr. Morris?”

“No trouble about that, sir,” answered the guide. “She’ll be right and tight before sundown—all except the paint.”

After telling Roy and his companion that if they did not overtake him before, they would find him encamped somewhere on the bank of the creek near the pond, Mr. Swan applied himself to his oars, and a fleet of seven boats, manned by fourteen angry and determined guides and guests, set out in pursuit of Matt Coyle and his thieving crew. Ten minutes later Joe Wayring returned, accompanied by a guide and a small party of ladies and gentlemen. The former was to show him what boat he could take, and the latter were listening with much interest to Joe’s graphic account of his adventures with the squatter. Joe was surprised to learn that Matt’s way of creeping up through the bushes and robbing unguarded camps, had frightened the women and children so badly that they refused to go into the woods until the thief had been captured and safely lodged in jail. That depended upon the evidence Joe could give to put him there.

“That’s all mighty fine,” said Mr. Morris, after listening to what Joe had to say of his conversation with the stranger, “but they don’t give a thought to the hardest part of the business. Matt ain’t caught yet, and there’ll have to be a heap of hard work done before he is shut up so’t he can’t steal no more scatter-guns; you see if there ain’t. I’d like to take a hand in the hunt myself, but I’ve got to go out with the same man I guided for last year, and he’s liable to come along any day.”

Their boat having been pointed out to them, Joe and his companions lost no time in putting their effects aboard of it. Then they bade Mr. Morris good-by, lifted their caps to the party on shore, and rowed down the lake and up the creek in pursuit of the fleet. They overtook Mr. Swan and his party just before they landed to eat their lunch, traveled in company with them during the rest of the day, and went into camp with them at night. I had abundant opportunity to compare notes with the three recovered bait-rods, who corroborated the story that was told me by the canvas canoe, and which I have already given to the reader in my own words. The squatter was fully resolved, they said, that if he couldn’t act as guide in those woods, nobody should; and the worst of it was, he seemed to be in a fair way to accomplish his object. The sportsmen who patronized the hotels came there for fun and recreation; and it wasn’t likely that they could see much of it if their wives and children were to be prevented from accompanying them on their fishing excursions through fear of this man, Matt Coyle. The owners of the Lefever hammerless and Winchester rifle didn’t see much fun in having their fine weapons stolen, and if these depredations were not stopped, and that speedily, it would not be long before the guests would be looking for some place of resort where thieves were not quite so plenty.

“But even that isn’t the worst of it,” continued Joe’s bait-rod, who did the most of the talking. “Every thing seems to indicate that the squatter is going to have a bigger following now than he has been able to boast of in the past. He isn’t the only worthless scamp there is in the woods, by any means. You know, I suppose, that the State fish commissioners have established a hatchery at the outlet of Deer Lake, a few miles from here?”

I replied that I had not heard of it.

“Well, they have, and the superintendent wants to prohibit fishing there, so that he can get a supply of eggs large enough to stock all these waters, which will soon be stripped of trout unless there are some put in to take the place of the multitudes that are caught every year. The superintendent sets traps in the outlet to catch the fish so that he can get their eggs, and three or four fellows who live right there, and who look enough like Matt Coyle to be his brothers, go to the outlet every night and cut the nets. The superintendent threatened to have them arrested if they didn’t quit it, and they told him that they had always fished in that outlet, and if he wanted the hatchery buildings to stay there, he hadn’t better try to stop them. I heard the whole conversation. I was down there when old Dead Shot was broken.”

“Who’s Dead Shot?” I inquired.

“I am,” faintly replied Arthur Hastings’s crippled rod.

“Why, that’s a queer name for you to bear,” said I. “I think it would be more appropriate for a shot-gun or rifle.”

“Perhaps it would; but Arthur has always called me that since I caught his first string of yellow pike for him, and it is the name I go by. I never let a fish get away when I get a good grip on him—that is, when I have some one to handle me who knows what he is about. But Jake don’t know any thing about a rod, for he has always fished with a pole he cut in the bushes. On the day the superintendent talked so plainly to the vagabonds who cut his nets, Jake was fishing in the outlet, and Matt was hiding in one of the cabins. A little fish—I should not think he weighed more than a pound, judging by the bite he gave—took the hook, which was baited with worms, and Jake tried to yank him out by main strength, as he had always been in the habit of doing; but the line caught between two rocks, and as Jake threw back his head and surged on me with all the muscle he had, I broke. That’s all there was of it.”

“And do you think that Matt Coyle will strike hands with those fellows at the outlet?” I asked, when Dead Shot had ended his story.

“He has done it already, and our friends here have undertaken a bigger job than they bargained for,” answered the bait-rod. “Those vagabonds are all tarred with the same stick. They sympathize with Matt, and will hide him in their houses and help him in every way they can.”

“Haven’t we got force enough to go into the houses and take him out?”

“We’ve got the force, but not the authority. There’s not an officer or a search-warrant in our party.”

Not being posted in law, I did not quite understand the situation, but I didn’t like to ask any more questions. It was enough for me to know that Matt Coyle seemed to have the best of the game. Indeed, he always seemed to have it.