were well-nigh discouraged, when, just as they were crashing through
some thick underbrush, B.J. stopped suddenly short. Sawed-Off bumped
into him, and Jumbo tripped over Sawed-Off; but B.J. commanded them
to be silent so sharply that they paused where they had fallen and
listened violently.

Then they heard far and faint in the distance to the right of their
course a little murmur of voices just barely audible.

B.J.'s quick ear made out the difference between this far-off hubbub
and the other quiet sounds of the night.

That dim little noise his breathless fellows could just hear was the
wild hullabaloo the foolish Crows had set up to drown out the voices
of Tug and History, as they gave the Lakerim yell.

B.J.'s ear was correct enough not only to understand the noise but to
decide the direction it came from, though to the other Lakerimmers it
came from nowhere in particular and everywhere in general. Before they
had made up their minds just how puzzled they were, B.J. was striking
off in a new direction at the top of his speed, and was well over the
stone wall before they could get up steam to follow him. Across the
road and through the barbed-wire fence he led them pell-mell. There
was a little pause while Jumbo helped the lubberly Sawed-Off through
the strands that had laid hold of his big frame like fish-hooks.
B.J. took this chance to vouchsafe his followers just one bit of
information.

"They're at Roden's Knoll," he puffed.

Roden's Knoll was a little clearing in the woods that marked the
highest point of land in the State, though it was approached very
gradually, and nothing but a barometer could have told its elevation.

It was a long run through the night, over many a treacherous bog
and through many a cluster of bushes, which, as Jumbo said, had
finger-nails; and there was many a stumble and jolt, and many a short
stop at the edge of a sudden embankment. One of these pauses that
brought the whole nine up into a knot was the little step-off where
Tug and History had thought they were being shoved over the precipice
of a Grand Canon.

At length Roden's Knoll was reached, but there the weary Lakerimmers
were discouraged to find nothing but a smoldering fire and the signs
of a hard straggle.

"We're too late; it's all over," sighed Pretty, thinking sadly of the
mud and the rips and tears that disfigured his usually perfect toilet.

"I move we rest a bit," groaned Sleepy, seconding his own motion b