CHAPTER XIX.
MORE MYSTERY IN THE AIR It was nearly dark, after an afternoon of hard work for five members of the party, and an afternoon of wonderful sport for Dick Prescott.
A crude raft had been built.

That part of the work had been easy, and it was swiftly performed.

But three trips with the small raft had been needed to bring over the tent, the supplies, the push cart and everything belonging to the old camp.
Now the new camp stood pitched at a short distance from the cave, but near to the edge of the lake.

The tent had been put up in a natural clearing, behind a line of timber, so that the canvas was not visible from the other side of the lake.
At trout fishing Dick had proved himself more than an expert.
Now that darkness was coming, Dick was bending over a low fire, watching a frying pan in which four speckled beauties, well dipped in batter, were sizzling merrily.
"This is the finest food I've ever had," declared Greg Holmes, swallowing another mouthful of trout and leaning back with a contented sigh.
"It certainly is great," agreed Dave Darrin.

"Fellows, I've wasted some of my life in the past, for I never before knew the taste of brook trout." "I tried 'em once," said Reade, "but they didn't taste as fine as these.