“Lucky for him that Ned didn’t make the coffee for supper,” muttered Stacy, but so low that the captain did not hear the remark.

Captain McKay, the real Captain McKay this time, was almost boyish in appearance.  He was of about the same build as the other man who had declared himself to be the captain, but the real captain had light hair and laughing blue eyes, as opposed to the dark hair and eyes of the other man.  The captain’s skin was fair.  It seemed not to have suffered from exposure to the sun and storm of the plains.

Tad led the way to the camp, followed by the visitor and the rest of the Pony Rider outfit.

“Most remarkable, most remarkable,” muttered the professor, taking keen sidelong glances at Captain McKay.

“You are Butler, aren’t you?” called the captain.

“Yes, sir,” answered Tad, glancing back.

“I knew you the instant I set eyes on you.  You’re a sharp young man.  You discovered me before I got into your camp.”

“Discovered you?” exclaimed the professor.

“Yes.  He heard me.  I stepped on a stick that bent down under my foot.  The stick didn’t snap and how that young scout ever caught the faint sound is more than I can explain.”

“So, that was what you were looking at?” laughed Ned.

“Tad’s got ears in the back of his head,” added Stacy.

“I observe that all of you have pretty keen senses,” smiled the Ranger captain.  “Something smells good.”

“It’s the coffee that Tad’s making for you,” answered the fat boy solemnly.  “How’s the going?”

“Pretty fair.  How is it with you?” returned the captain.

“So, so,” answered Stacy carelessly.  “You heard about my getting shot, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I heard all about it.”

“I got wounded in the fracas, I did.  I’m going to France one of these days to fight the Huns.  Then I suppose I shall get shotted up some more.  You take it from me, though, I’ll put some of those savages on the run before they get me,” declared Chunky belligerently.

“Perhaps you will explain why your men ran away from us the other night, sir?” spoke up Walter.

“They were called away.  I guess the ’possum hunt was too much for them,” answered the Ranger with twinkling eyes.  “You rather put it over my boys, young man,” he said nodding at Stacy, whose face flushed a rosy red.

“What’s that?” demanded the professor.

“Drove them out of their tent by unloading a bag of fleas on them.  Ha, ha, ha!  I guess you got revenge on them, young man.  By the way, you’re Brown, aren’t you?”

“I was done brown down there in the bush that night.  Mosquitoes were worse than a volley of rifle bullets.”

“But—–­I don’t understand,” protested the professor.

Captain McKay laughingly explained.  He told them how the Rangers had been so pestered by the fleas and other insects that Stacy had captured in the ’possum bag that the men were forced to get up and walk all the rest of the night, until a messenger had come from their commander, ordering them to go on a hurry scout some forty miles from where they were camped.