On the evening of one Thursday in August, Master Hall and the members of the three patrols composing the troop of Boy were lounging on the of the or clubhouse which stands on the shore of Gosling Lake in Southern Maine. It was the day succeeding the departure of George Burton and his bloodhound Zip.  
The hours had been busy ones for our young friends. There had been fishing, strolls through the woods, of the different kinds of trees, the study of birds, besides a “deer hunt.” I hasten to say that this was not a real hunt, a being used with bows and arrows as weapons. This is one of the most popular forms of amusements among Boy Scouts, who enjoy it to the full.
 
So when the youths came back to headquarters, they brought keen appetites, spirits and healthy tired bodies. The on the piazza was a pleasing reunion of all the members. There were experiences to be told, good natured chaffing, the laying of plans for the morrow, and now and then Mike Murphy, in answer to the unanimous demand, sang for them. As I have already said, this youth, despite his unrestrainable waggery, would never sing anything of a or “rag time” nature, but inclined to or religious themes. When that marvelous voice of his, like the notes of a Stradivarius violin in the hands of Ole Bull, or Spohr, or Kubelik, was across the lake, it was easy to believe the story of the sirens of Lorelei.
 
Thus the party was grouped on the night I have named, and the hum and of conversation was at its height, when Scout Master Hall exclaimed:
 
“Look!”
 
Every voice was instantly hushed. In the gloom the leader’s arm which he had extended could not be seen, but naturally all who were not already looking out upon the water did so. Every one was in time to see a swift rocket turn and break into a shower of sparks as it dived downward again.
 
It was still in sight when a second whirred upward for two hundred feet or more, leaving a streaming, dazzling trail as it circled over, exploded and the stick downward in the darkness.
 
Every one held his breath. Most of them rose and stared. It might be that the physician was sending up the rockets to amuse his daughter. If there were only two, they would mean nothing more; if there was another——
 
“There it is!” Scout Master Hall; “something is wrong at Doctor Spellman’s!”
 
It was the signal which had been agreed upon in the event of their friend finding himself in urgent need of help.
 
It seemed as if several minutes passed before, through the tomb-like , stole a faint popping sound,—the report of the explosion ending its journey across the lake.
 
The dull, almost inaudible call acted as if it were a blast. The whole party dashed off the porch and at headlong speed to the two canoes upon the beach. Even Crandall swung to the steps, and debated a moment whether he should not join the party of rescue, but his common sense told him he would be only a , and he reluctantly stayed behind and watched the shadowy forms of his friends as shown in the star gleam, the moon not yet having risen.
 
“He has called for us,” said Scout Master Hall, “and there isn’t a minute to lose!”
 
on the edge of the lake he gave his commands as coolly as an officer marshaling his forces for a charge. In a twinkling the two boats were afloat in the deep water which came close to the bank.
 
“There are twenty-one of us; each canoe will carry no more than eight; the other five must hurry along the shore to the doctor’s house.”
 
The lads stood breathless, waiting for the leader to name those who must walk. He did so:
 
“Isaac Rothstein, Hoke Butler, Gerald Hume, Arthur Mitchell, Gordon Calhoun.”
 
It was a keen disappointment to the five, but there was not a .
 
“Come on, boys,” called Hoke; “if we do our best we shall not be far behind them.”
 
His long legs carried him at a pace that made it hard for the others to equal. In Indian file the procession, with him in the lead, loped along the beach and was speedily swallowed up in the obscurity.
 
The crews of the canoes worked like . In a twinkling the boys had adjusted themselves and in each boat the two who were handiest with the paddles plyed them vigorously. Scout Master Hall was seated in the stern of one, among his companions being Mike Murphy, Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes.
 
At the moment the two craft put out from shore, Mike Murphy repeated the exclamation—
 
“Look!”
 
The startling performance of a few minutes before was repeated. One, two, three rockets streamed upward in the heavens, curved over, exploded and plunged downward among the trees.
 
“What can be the trouble?” was the question which everyone of the rescuers 264asked himself, as the oarsmen threw their energies into the task, and sent the heavily-laden craft with the utmost speed across the lake toward the home of their friend.
 
Alvin and Chester swung the paddles in their canoe, which speedily assumed a slight lead. There was little or no conversation, but each Boy Scout was busy with his thoughts, and burning with curiosity to learn the cause of the strange night call across the lake. Since every one knew of the doings of the two tramps, who had been in the vicinity for several days and had been se............