Again Fred studied the lay of the land, then drew off his coat and flung it aside.

“Now, to work!” he said to himself gleefully.

First of all, he got the food supplies all together.  Most of this stuff was in the form of canned goods.  Ripley gathered it up in one big pile.

Then he stepped over to the tent, from which, at several points and angles he looked carefully over to the hotel landing float on the other side of Lake Pleasant.

“They can’t see, from the hotel, whether the tent is down or up,” Fred determined.  “So here goes!”

Opening the largest blade of his pocketknife, Fred cut one of the guy-ropes.  He passed around the tent, cutting each one in turn, until the canvas shelter fell over in a white mass.

“Won’t they be sore, though?” laughed Fred maliciously, as he started to carry off the camp supplies.

Gr-r-r-r-r!  Gr-r-r-r!

Just as Fred was straightening up to start off with his load for a bush-screen near the lake front, Ripley heard that ominous growl.  There was also the sound of something moving through the bushes.

As Fred turned his face blanched.

“Harry Hazelton’s bull-dog!” he quivered, now utterly frightened as he caught sight of the gleaming teeth in that ugly muzzle.  “I didn’t know that they had brought that beast with them.  It’s the lake for mine!  If I can only get into the water I can swim faster than the dog!”

All this flashed through his mind in an Instant.  Young Ripley started in full flight.

Close behind him, bounding savagely, came the bull-dog, Towser!

Trip!  Fred’s foot caught in a root.  Crying out in craven fright, Fred Ripley plunged to the ground.

There was no time to rise.  Towser, growling angrily, was upon him with a bound.

Gr-r-r-r-r!

Fred, with a shriek, felt the dog’s teeth in the back of his shirt.

“Get out, you beast!” begged young Ripley in a faint voice.

Gr-r-r-r! was all the answer.  Plainly the dog liked the taste of that shirt, for he held to it tight.

“Get away—–­please do!” faltered Fred in a broken voice.  “Get away.  Don’t bite.  Nice doggie!  Nice, nice doggie!  Please let go!”

Gr-r-r-r-r!

But Towser didn’t attempt to bite as yet.  For a bull-dog, and considering how fully he was master of the field at present, Towser displayed amazing good nature.  Only when young Ripley moved did the four-footed policeman of the camp utter that warning growl.

“Nice doggie!” coaxed Fred pleadingly.  “Good old fellow!”

To this bit of rank flattery Towser offered no reply.  It began to look as though he would be quite satisfied if only his captive made no effort to get away.

“Wouldn’t I like to be on my feet, with a shotgun in my hands!” gritted Fred.

“Gr-r-r-r,” replied Towser, as though he were an excellent reader of human minds.