“That’s a fact, where is he?  The fire is burning decently, and from that I judge he’s around somewhere,” remarked Frank.

“Well,” broke in Will, “you know he acted as though afraid when we were starting out.  Said something about the big owls in the timber getting on his nerves.”

“And the varmints prowling around, waiting for a chance to eat him up.  I believe the coon is hiding in one of the tents, afraid to show himself.  How about that, Frank, is he such a coward” demanded Jerry.

The other laughed.

“Don’t ask me,” he replied, shaking his head; “it isn’t quite fair to give poor old Uncle Toby away like that But we’re getting close to the camp now, and, if he is around, I’ll soon raise him like I did before.”

“If he’s let that supper burn, something is going to happen to a respectable colored gentleman I know,” threatened Bluff.

“Listen to him.  Talk about your fighters, this Bluff takes the cake.  Why, not satisfied with trying to whip the entire Lasher crowd in a bunch, now he wants to take on poor harmless old Uncle Toby Washington Low.  Perhaps after all, it’s just as well such a blood-thirsty character has been robbed of his little pump-gun.  Why, he’d have cleaned out the whole woods community, given half a chance,” jeered Jerry.

“Come now, let that drop.  I’m only joking, and you know it.  I wouldn’t lay a single finger on old Toby’s white wool for worlds.  But where is he, Frank?” said Bluff.

“Say, there’s something in our camp, boys!” ejaculated Will, at that moment.

“What’s that?” asked Frank, his interest suddenly aroused.

“Well, I saw something moving there—­look now, there it is again, over just beside the nearer tent,” whispered Will, in an awe-struck voice.

They all saw it now.

“Keeps moving all the time.  Boys, it strikes me that it must be an animal of some sort!” came from the experienced Frank.

“Goodness gracious!  I hope it hasn’t devoured poor old Toby,” gasped Will.

“Well, make your mind up on that score, for it hasn’t—­yet!  Just look aloft a bit—­right above where the thing is jumping about as if worrying something.  What do you see astraddle that limb, eh?” asked Frank, triumphantly.

“Talk about your treed coons, why that’s old Toby sitting up there, and hanging on for dear life.”

“And that object in the camp is, I believe, a wildcat, worrying over our fine ham,” remarked Frank, quietly raising the hammers of his shotgun.

CHAPTER XI

A NIGHT ALARM

“Oh! please don’t shoot just yet; I’m nearly ready,” exclaimed Will, who had been fumbling with trembling fingers at his camera while they were creeping closer.

“What do you want to do—­shoot the cat with your machine?” whispered Frank, the most accommodating fellow in the world.