As if in answer, the sound of wagon wheels were heard, and in a few moments the old white horse came into view, drawing a farm wagon on which the canoe rested, bottom upward. Sitting on the wagon, a dumpy figure held the reins and nodded with every swaying movement, eyes tightly closed. Even when the old horse came to a full stop a short distance from the camp, Carl Duckelstein slept on. “What do you think of that, fellows?” laughed Grant. Awkwardly tiptoeing forward, Crane reached the wagon, bent forward, placed his lips within a foot of Carl’s head and gave utterance to an ear-splitting yell. If he had expected to see the Dutch boy awaken in a terrified manner, Sile was much disappointed, for Carl slowly lifted one hand, brushed at his ear, and thickly mumbled: “Got avay, mosquito.” The laughter that followed caused Carl to pry his eyes open with considerable effort, following which he surveyed the laughing lads with a dumb, comical expression of perplexity. “Vot it vas?” he yawned. “Vhere iss it I am yet?” “Why don’t you do yeour sleepin’ nights?” snapped Crane disgustedly. “Some of my sleeping does do me nights,” returned the fat boy; “but enough of it couldt not get me. Goot morning. Your canoes I haf brought—undt der milks undt der eggs undt der putter.” “You certain took your time about it,” said Grant. “You agreed to bring the milk and eggs and butter early, and pack the canoe in to us later on.” “Yah,” acknowledged Carl complacently; “but I out figured it dot I couldt vurk save by doing him all at vunce. It iss now did; I haf with me brought eferything, undt I vill not haf to dood him twice.” “Carl,” said Stone, “you’ve got a long head.” “Yah,” returned the boy, with a touch of pride, “I peliefe a long head hass got me.” “But if we hadn’t cuc-caught plenty of fish,” said Springer, “we might have starved for all of you.” “Nefer mind dot. Didt you some fish catch already yet? Vhere didt dese fish get you?” “Out of the brook over yonder, and I tell you they were bub-beauties; handsomest trout you ever saw. We run across a fuf-friend of yours over there, a fellow by the name of Jim Simpson.” “Chim Skimpson didn’t peen no friendship uf mine,” cried Carl, with a surprising display of spirit. “Efery time he sees me it iss a fight he vants to up pick. Dot Chim Skimpson didt not like me. Sometimes, ven der chance gets me, I vill hit him mit a club.” “It was right evident to us,” said Grant, “that Mr. Simpson thought himself quite a scrapper, but I opine he’s changed his mind some.” “I gug-guess he has,” laughed Springer. “Say, Dutchy, you should have seen this Texas longhorn polish off Jim Simpson in double-quick time. Simpson tut-tried to drive us away from the brook, claiming it belonged to his old man; but Grant pitched him into the water, and then, when he came tearing out, frothing for a scrap, Rod whipped him with a sus-single wallop on the jaw.”