Stacy was rolling over and over now as if his very life depended
upon getting away. He could not spare the time to get up and run, so
he continued to roll over and over, making no mean progress at that.

"Go it, Chunky!" shouted Walter in high glee.

The scene, dimly lighted by the smouldering camp-fire, was so
ludicrous as to send the boys into shouts of laughter. All were
thoroughly awake now. They had made camp at sunset on the banks of
the East Fork, of what was known as Fennell's Creek, a broad, deep
stream which, joining its companion fork some ten miles further
down, flowed into the clear waters of the Yellowstone. Here they had
cooked their supper after many attempts, made with varying degrees
of success and much laughter. Later they had rolled themselves into
their blankets and gone to sleep.

They had been awakened by Stacy Brown's yawns. In a moment each had
taken his turn at yawning, but all took the interruption
good-naturedly, save Ned Rector. By this time he had grown very much
excited. No sooner would he pounce upon the spot where Stacy
appeared to be, than the fat boy by a few swift rolls would propel
himself well beyond the reach of his irate companion.

"It'll be the worse for you when I do get you," cried Ned.

At that moment Ned tripped over a limb, and, plunging headlong,
measured his length on the ground.

The sympathy of the camp was with the rolling Chunky.