Reaching this signboard, Murker looked around to make sure he was unobserved. Then, with a few blows from a hammer, he knocked off the two signboards. These he reversed, so that the one marked “Seven miles to Ramsen” pointed in just the opposite direction--to Fayetville. The other board he also reversed. “But it’s the Ramsen one they’ll look at if they come to Camp No. 3,” said Murker, “and they’re almost sure to come. Then we’ll have Fairfield where we want him!” CHAPTER XIV THE BEAR’S TRAIL Bert Wilson was carefully examining his camera, sitting at a table in the cozy quarters of Cabin No. 2, where he and his chums had gathered after the day’s hunt. When he had adjusted the shutter, which had stuck several times of late, thereby spoiling some fine pictures, Bert took up his gun, and began taking that apart to clean it. “I say! What’s up?” questioned Tom, who was lying lazily on his back on a blanket-covered couch, staring at the flicker of the flames on the ceiling. “Getting ready for an expedition, Bert?” “Well, I sort of feel it in my bones that I’ll get a bear to-morrow, or a deer anyhow, and I’m taking no chances,” was the answer. “Going to get the game with your gun or your camera?” asked Jack. “Both,” was the quick answer. “I’ll snapshot him first and pot him afterward.” “If he lets you,” laughed George. “But I’d like to see any healthy bear stand for having Bert poke a camera in his face, and then shoot a slug of lead into him.” “You watch my smoke--that’s all,” said Bert significantly, as he went on cleaning his gun. “What’s the program for to-morrow?” asked Jack, who, like Tom, was doing nothing, and taking considerable pains at it. “Well, I thought we’d go off on an all-day hunt again,” was the young host’s answer, for Tom was really in that position, it being on his invitation, through his father, that the boys had come to the hunting camp. “That idea suits me,” responded Jack. “But take along more grub than we did last time. I was hungry before we got back.” “Why don’t we shoot what we want to eat?” suggested George. “I never read of a party of hunters having to depend on canned stuff or the grocery when they were really good shots, as we are!” and he puffed himself up with pretended pride. “What’s the use taking a lot of grub along when you can shoot a partridge or two, and broil ’em over the coals of an open fire? Doesn’t that sound good?” “It _sounds_ a great deal better than it really is,” spoke Tom. “That sort of thing is all right to read about, but I like my game to stand a little after being killed. And it’s hard to dress and get ready anything when you’re on a tramp. So I think we’ll just take our grub along. We’ll have more time for hunting then.” “That’s right,” assented Jack. Bert’s interest in his gun prompted George to look after his weapon. Jack and Tom declared theirs were already in perfect shape for the morrow’s sport, providing they saw any game.