The boys gathered into a group near the fire, and a few seconds later the horsemen surrounded them, each with his shotgun ready for use. “There be them chickens, Jim, ez sure ez you air born!” cried one of the men. “I told yeou them rascals cum this way!” “Will rob an honest farmer’s hen-roost, will yeou?” burst out another of the men. “Four o’ ’em an’ a coon! Put down yeour guns, yeou scamps, or we’ll fill yeour hides so full o’ shot yeou can’t stand!” Simultaneously, the four men sprang down into the snow, and came forward. At a glance it was plain to see that they were a quartet of hard-working and honest farmers. “We’ll march the lot o’ ’em over to Bagsville, and have Squire Riggins sit on the case,” said the leader. “We’ll teach ’em how to come up here an’ steal our lawful property!” [Illustration: “Will rob an honest farmer’s hen-roost, will yeou?” See page 174.] CHAPTER XXV. A FRIEND IN NEED. The boys listened in silence to what the farmers had to say. They realized at once the natural mistake the men were making. The chickens the owners of the camp had cooked had been stolen, and these four tillers of the soil supposed the members of the Zero Club guilty of the crime which had been committed. Jack was the first to speak, and a faint smile showed itself around the corners of his mouth as he lowered his shotgun and began to explain the case. “You are making a great mistake,” he said. “We know nothing of your chickens. We do not belong at this camp.” “Tell thet to yeour grandmother!” retorted the foremost farmer. “I know better.” “My friend speaks the truth,” put in Harry. “Our camp is away off on the shore of Rock Island Lake.” “None o’ yeour darn yarns now!” growled another of the farmers. “If I an’t mistaken, yeou be the very feller I seed around the barn tudder evenin’!” “You are mistaken. But I don’t wonder your chickens were stolen. We had all our traps taken, and we came here to get them back.” “Gee shoo! Can’t thet boy tell a yarn, though?” chuckled the tallest of the farmers. “He must hev been a-makin’ it up fer fear we would cotch him!” “It is no yarn!” retorted Harry, flushing up. “I am telling the plain truth. We are not the owners of this camp, and we know positively nothing of your fowls.” “We are above taking chickens!” burst in Boxy. “We can shoot all the game we wish, and more.” “So we can,” added Andy. “Do we look like chicken thieves?” “Wall, I reckon a coon makes a good hen lifter!” laughed the smallest of the farmers, with a nod toward Pickles, which made the colored youth mad clear to his heels. “Look heah!” he cried out, shaking his gun threateningly; “yo’ can’t consult me dat way, yo’ low-down white trash! A chicken lifter, indeed! Moah likely yo’ is one yourself!” “What’s thet? Don’t yeou talk tew me!” roared the farmer, bristling up like a turkey cock. “Maybe yeou don’t know who yeou be a-talkin’ to?”