He was talking to the stick confidentially, urging it to “do something,” to the intense amusement of the whole outfit.

“Now, where’s your theory?” questioned the Professor.

“Why, it doesn’t have to work, does it?  Don’t we know there’s water here?  If we didn’t the stick would tell us, maybe.  Take my word for it, this outfit won’t have to go dry after this.  Stacy Brown and his magic wand will find all the water needed,” continued the fat boy proudly.

“Your logic is good, at any rate, even if the rod doesn’t work at command,” laughed the Professor.

Supper was a jolly affair, for everyone was in high spirits.  The sage hen, contrary to general expectation, was found to be delicious.  Chunky begged for the wish bone and got it.  He said he’d use it for a divining rod when he wanted to find a little spring.

“Mr. Kringle, I am commissioned by the fellows to ask you a question,” announced Tad, after the meal had been in progress for a time.

“Ask it,” smiled the guide.

“We thought we’d like to call you Santa Claus, seeing you’ve brought us so much cheer.  Then again, it’s your name you know.  Kris Kringle is Santa Claus.”

“Oh, well, call me what you please, young men.”

From that moment on, Kris Kringle was Santa Claus to the Pony Rider Boys.

They had now come to a rolling country, with here and there high buttes, followed by large areas of bottom lands which were covered with rank growths of bunch grass.  Traveling was more difficult than it had been, and water more scarce.

It was on the second day out, after they had been skirmishing for water in every direction, that the lads heard the familiar yell from Chunky.

“There goes the trouble maker,” cried Ned.  “He’s at it again.”

The guide bounded up, starting on a run for the spot where Chunky’s wail had been heard.  The others were not far behind.

They saw the red, perspiring face of the fat boy above a clump of grass, his yells for help continuing, unabated.

“What is it?” shouted the guide.

“I’ve got it, Santa Claus!  I’ve got it!”

“Got what?” roared the Professor.

“The stick!—­ I mean it’s got me.  Help!  Help!”

Stacy was wrestling about as if engaged in combat with some enemy.  They could not imagine what had gone wrong—­ what had caused his sudden cries of alarm.

“It’s the divining rod!” called the guide.

“He’s found water!” shouted the boys.

“I’ve got it!  I’ve got it!  Come help me hold it.  The thing’s jerking my arms off.”

To the amazement of the Pony Rider Boys, the forked stick in the hands of the fat boy was performing some strange antics.  Breathing hard, he would force it up until it was nearly upright, when all at once the point of the triangle would suddenly swerve downward, bending the rod almost to the breaking point.