"I believe that's enough," said Lew. "Let's get back to camp. The fellows
will be at their instruments at nine, ready to talk to us." He glanced at
his watch. "I had no idea," he cried, "that it was so late. It's almost
nine now. We'll have to hurry."

So fascinating had been the glimpses of life in the brook that time had
sped much faster than either boy realized.

They hurried back to their camp. They had taken the precaution to sling
their grub high above ground on a piece of wire, but apparently nothing
had tried to molest anything. Lew rekindled the fire in the little stone
fireplace they had built and Charley uncovered the wireless instruments
and sat down on one pack bag. The other he flung to Lew. Then he slipped
the receivers on his head, threw over his switch, and sent the bright
sparks flashing between the points of his spark-gap.

"CBWC--CBWC--CBWC--CBC," he rapped out. (Camp Brady Wireless Club, Charley
Russell calling.)

Then he sat in silence, waiting for an answer. It came promptly.

"CBC--CBC--CBC--I--I--I--GA." (Charley Russell--We're here. Go ahead.)

"Got 'em," he cried. He answered and got a reply. "They want to know why
we didn't call up last night," Charley said to Lew.

The fire in the little fireplace burned clear and bright, making a circle
of light in the dark forest. Lew sat near the fire, cross-legged on his
pack bag, thrusting an occasional stick into the flames. Charley sat by