“We might go for woodchucks,” suggested one of the smaller boys. “We might,” said another, “but then the old sweet tree in the Parker’s orchard’s about ripe.” “That’s it,” said Bill Jones, “and I saw him going through the village this very morning. Both his dogs with him.” “All right,” replied Zeb. “Bob and I and the bay colt don’t mean to come back till we bring Sol Dryer’s cows along with us.” “Hurrah for Zeb Fuller!” shouted Hy Allen, and, with a yell of general approbation and acquiescence in the plans of their chief, for such he seemed to be, that squad of “the worst boys in Ogleport,” as Dr. Dryer would have called them, separated, each to his own especial usefulness. In five minutes more, Zeb was in the saddle, and he and Bob were off to seek their fortune. Just a little after noon of that eventful day it might fairly have been said that the plans of Zeb Fuller had fairly begun to ripen. Bill Jones and Hy Allen were busily at work under a tree by the lake shore, building a fire to aid them in the preparation of their lunch. The borrowed boat they had pulled up on the beach had a very fine show of fish in it, but not a sign of a cow, and the pair of them seemed just as well contented. Miles away, on the eastern hillside, another detachment of Zeb’s faithful army were admiring the furry coats of no less than three woodchucks which they and their attendant curs had dug out and captured, while not a boy among them all could have got his hands into his pockets or put his hat on his head until he should have eaten more half-ripe sweet apples than any one boy could have the slightest hope of holding. Long miles away, again to the northward, the bay colt, without one flake of perspiration upon his glossy sides to indicate that he had been driven around the country very extensively, was pulled up in the middle of an open, unfenced bit of woodland, while his rider sat looking wistfully in all directions. “Not a hoof or a horn!” exclaimed Zeb. “I’d no notion they’d wander out of this. Gone on North, anyhow. Come, Bob, we’ll come up with ’em before long.” Not quite so soon as he thought, however, for one mile, two miles, and then a third, vanished under the now quickened pace of the bay colt, and the merry face of his rider was growing longer and longer, before a bark from Bob and a shout from his master greeted the discovery of cattle ahead. And there they were, surely enough, the dun heifer and the two older cows, but not by any means feeding leisurely at the wayside, as they should have been. On the contrary, they were being driven steadily along northward, in the charge of three ragged, disreputable-looking, vagabond boys, two of them of about Zeb’s size and one younger, and a big, mangy-looking yellow dog. “Hullo!” shouted Zeb, as he galloped up and passed them, reining in the bay colt across the road. “What are you doing with them cows?”