"

"There's a good place ahead of you, Bandy-legs," advised Max; "now show
us what you can do. Steve is high notch so far with his gi-_gan_tic
mastodon frog. Beat him out at his little game, Bandy-legs, if you can."

The boy with the target rifle quickly added another victim to those
whose prized hinder quarters lay in a heap in the trout basket Toby had
slung over his shoulder.

"That makes fifteen, and only five more to get to cover the twenty,"
Steve announced; "but if they were all whoppers like mine, say, the
basket wouldn't be big enough to hold them, I reckon."

The hunt went on, and by the time the sun had passed pretty well down
the western sky, heading for the black bank of clouds that lay
menacingly there, the frog hunters had completed the circuit of the big
pond. They had exceeded their expectations also, for several beyond the
score had been bagged.

"A good afternoon's work, I take it," remarked Steve, who was feeling
very well satisfied, because he had secured the biggest frog ever seen
in that part of the country, the patriarch of the lot apparently; nor
did the fact that his face was still streaked with dried mud, and his
clothes looked like those of a common hobo, seem to detract from his
bubbling joy.

They started for home along the road that led to Carson. This was
something of a favorite highway, and they were apt to meet various
vehicles while tramping over the mile and a half that separated them
from home.

Just as he had said he would do, whenever they chanced to meet a
carriage Steve proved quick to dodge into the scrub, and after the
danger had passed overtake his companions by hurrying. Steve was always
good at hurrying; it was his favorite way of doing things, and nothing
pleased him better than a chance to sprint, in order to come up with his
mates.

They had perhaps covered half of the journey, and the church spires of
Carson could be easily seen in the near distance when all at once they
noticed a horse and buggy coming at a lively clip along the road.

"Looks like a runaway!" snapped Steve.

"It sure does," admitted Bandy-legs, "and what d'ye think of that, if
the girl in the same ain't Bessie French I'll eat my hat!"

"W-what!" almost roared the now excited Steve, stopping in his intention
to beat a hasty retreat, the neighboring bushes offering a splendid
asylum.

"It's Bessie, all right," said Max; "but about her being run away with,
I'm not so sure, because she knows