“Do you really think we can get any game?” asked Jack Fitch, as he loosed his mackinaw at the throat, for he had warmed himself by a vigorous burst of skating just before the little halt that had ended in the impromptu vote of thanks to Tom. “Get game? Well, I should say we could!” cried another of the lads. “What do you know about it, Bert Wilson?” demanded Jack. “Were you ever up there?” “No, but I’m sure Tom Fairfield wouldn’t ask us up to a hunter’s camp unless he was reasonably sure that we could get some kind of game. I’m not very particular what kind,” Bert went on, “as long as it’s game--a bear, a mountain lion, a lynx--I’m not hard to suit,” he added magnanimously. “Well, I should say not!” laughed Tom. “But say!” exclaimed the youngest member of the quartette--George Abbot by name. “Do you really think we can bag a bear? Or a lynx, maybe? Or even a fox? Are there really any big animals up there, Tom? What sort of a gun had I better take? And what about an outfit? Do you think----” Tom reached out and gently placed a gloved hand over the mouth of the questioner, thereby cutting off, for the time being, the flow of interrogations. “Just a moment, Why, if you please,” he said, giving George the nickname his fellow students at Elmwood Hall had fastened on the lad who seemed to be a human question mark. “Well, I--er--Buu--er--gurg----” But that was the nearest semblance to speaking that George could accomplish. His companions laughed at him. He finally made a sign that he would desist if Tom removed the hand-gag, and when this had been done, Jack proposed a little sprint down to one end of the small lake on which they were skating. “No, we’ve had enough racing to-day,” declared Bert Wilson. “I vote Tom tells us more about this hunters’ camp, and what we expect to do there.” “All right, I’m agreeable,” Jack said. “Are they----?” began Why, but a look from Bert warned him, and he stopped midway in his question. His chums well knew that if George once got started it was hard to stop him. “Well, there isn’t so much to tell that you fellows don’t know already,” began Tom slowly. “In the first place, there are three hunters’ camps, not one.” “Three!” exclaimed Jack and Bert, while George looked the questions he dared not ask. “Yes. You see they belong to a party of gentlemen, a sort of camping club. The camps are about five miles apart, in the wildest part of the Adirondacks.” “Why--three?” came at last from George. Really he could not keep it back any longer. Tom did not seem to mind. “Oh, I suppose they wanted to change their hunting ground,” he answered, “and they found it easier to make three camps, or headquarters, than to come all the way back to the first one. And the club is pretty well off, so it didn’t mind the expense.” “But you don’t mean to say we can use all three of ’em?” cried Jack, incredulously.