Ten miles is a mere "flea-bite," as Bluff Masters said, when a good,
lively motor-cycle "takes the bit in its teeth," and it seemed as though
they had hardly more than got well started before the junction was
reached, where Jerry swung ahead, and the rest trailed after him.

The pace had to be more moderate after this, for the going was not so
even; but, nevertheless, they made fair time, and finally swung around at
the head of the lake, where the logging camp was situated.

It was early in the season, but there were some timber cutters at work in
the woods near-by, and a greasy man-cook stood in the doorway of the long
log cabin where the gang put up throughout the winter, while conducting
their operations of leveling the forest, or, at least, robbing it of all
the spruce for the pulp mill over at Bedington.

Jerry held up at the lumber camp, for he wished to ask a few questions of
the cook, who was a man he happened to know in a small way, though never
particularly fancying Jock Stovers.

The fellow stared at seeing a quartette of elegant motor-cycles come
dashing up to the loggers' winter quarters.

"Hello! Jock. We're going into the woods to spend a week or two; wagon
following after with all the stuff. Where do you suppose we could run
across old Jesse Wilcox these days; and is he starting to do any
trapping?" asked Jerry.

The lumber-camp cook grinned a little as he took in the new and striking
hunting apparel which Bluff Masters sported so airily; doubtless he