eve."

"Ginger! that's going some for so early in the spring season, isn't it?
I'd like to get about twenty before we quit, which would make just five
for each of us, Max, Bandy-legs, you and myself. And seems like we ought
to knock over seven more this Saturday afternoon."

"Say, if only we were up in that old Dismal Swamp where I got lost last
year, I bet you we could fill a bushel basket with big bullfrog
saddles," remarked the third boy, whose lower limbs were a little
inclined to grow in the shape of bows and who had on that account always
gone by the significant name of "Bandy-legs" Griffin among his comrades.

"Well, the less you have to say about that time the better," remarked
the fourth of the squad, a bright-faced young chap who was looked upon
as a born leader, no matter whether on the field of sport as known to
the boys of Carson, or in camp, and whose name was Max Hastings;
"because you gave us a pretty bad scare the time we had to rush up there
and hunt that swamp through to find you. Back up, Steve; easy now, I
tell you!"

"Do you see the fourteenth victim crouching in the shallow water, or
squatting up on the bank?" whispered the boy who just then held the
little Flobert rifle, with which the so-called "game" was being bagged.

"Yes, and he must be the grand-daddy of the whole shooting match, he's
so enormously big. Look at that log lying on the shore, just where the
ice pushed it last winter. Don't you see a bunch of grass at the further
end? Well, he's alongside that, and I reckon he hears us talking, for he
looks wise and ready to plop into the water. Steady now, Touch-and-go
Steve; make sure before you shoot."

Steve Dowdy, though warm-hearted, and a mighty good comrade, was
inclined to be rather excitable at times, and on this account he had
been dubbed "Touch-and-go Steve," a name that seemed peculiarly
appropriate.

"I see the old rascal, all right," he murmured, as he slowly began to
raise the little rifle to his shoulder, and take aim; "and let me tell
you he's my meat. I've got a dead bead on him right now. Listen,
fellows!"

The sharp, spiteful snap of the Flobert rifle followed. Then Bandy-legs
gave a victorious crow, just as though he might have been a barnyard
rooster returning to his own dung-heap after whipping the next-door
neighbor's game fowl.

"That settled his hash for him, all right, and a fine shot for you,
Steve. Now hand me the gun, for it's my turn next; and go and r