CAMP RESTHERE
Three boys descended from the afternoon train, dragging after them
duffle bags, blanket rolls and bundles until, as the four-car train
took up its slow and seemingly painful journey again, they were fairly
surrounded. The half dozen witnesses of the exciting event surveyed the
three arrivals silently, unblinkingly for a space and then returned to
the interrupted routines of their lives, dispersing at various angles
across the snowy expanse that represented North Pemberton’s principal
business street. Leaving his companions on guard Hal Norwin followed,
directing his steps toward a rambling white building with blue doors
and window frames bearing the faded legend “Timkins’ Livery Stable.”
The agent disappeared into the station, closing the waiting room door
behind him with a most inhospitable-sounding _bang_. Bert Madden yawned
and then settled his chin more snugly into the upturned collar of his
mackinaw.
“Nice lively sort of a dump,” he observed.
Joe Kenton smiled. “How far is it to the camp, Bert?” he asked. The
sudden jangling of sleigh bells broke the silence and both boys turned
toward the stable. A man in an old bearskin coat was leading a horse
through the doorway and Hal was holding up the shafts of a double
sleigh.
“Eight miles, I think he said,” answered Bert. “Gee, we’ll never get
all this truck in that sleigh!”
But they did, and themselves and the driver as well, and ten minutes
later they were jingle-jangling along the narrow road, the runners
creaking on the firm snow, leaving North Pemberton behind. The old
blankets and fur robes under which the boys nestled were warm enough
for a much colder day, and the bags and bundles, piled about them,
added to the warmth. The sun was setting beyond Little Rat and Big
Rat Mountains, and the western sky was aglow. Presently, climbing the
slight grade between Little Rat and Marble Mountains, they crossed a
rude bridge, under which a stream gurgled beneath a canopy of ice.
“Is that Rat Brook?” asked Hal.
“Glover’s,” answered the driver. He pointed his whip to the left.
“Rat’s over there about a mile or so. Glover’s comes out of it further
along.”
“Oh, yes,” assented Hal, his voice muffled by the flap of his collar,
“I remember now. Rat Brook crossed the other road, the one toward
Burton.” The driver nodded, spoke to the horse and flicked his whip
harmlessly. “I should think,” pursued Hal, “that the other road would
be the shortest.”
“Yep, about a mile, but this road’s easier. Too many hills that way.
Only one on this road, and that’s just behind us. Get ap, Judy!”
Coming around the northern shoulder of Little Rat, they found the
sunset gone and the long purple shadows of evening stalking across the
floor of the little valley. Big Rat loomed beyond, wooded and dark. Hal
pointed westward. “Old Forge Pond’s over there,” he said. The boys in
the back seat looked, but there was nothing to see save a rather flat
forest of new growth maples and oaks and birches. Then, suddenly, as
they turned on the winding road, a streak of tarnished silver met their
gaze for an instant and was swiftly swallowed up by the trees.
“That was Rat Brook,” Hal informed them. “If we followed it we’d come
out at the lower end of the pond. It wouldn’t be more than three miles,
I guess.”
“Thanks,” said Bert, “I’m quite comfy as I am. There’s only one thing
troubling me, Hal. When do we eat?”
“Just as soon as we can,” laughed Hal. “We’ll get there in about
three quarters of an hour, I guess.” He looked to the driver for
confirmation, but the furwrapped figure failed to commit himself.
“Then we’ll fix up a bit and Joe can start supper.”
“Me!” exclaimed Joe startledly. “Gee, Hal, I can’t cook!”
Hal chuckled. “Well,” came from the front seat, “you’ll be able to do
all the cooking we’ll need to-night, Joe. I guess some cold grub, with
a cup of hot tea, will answer.”
There was a faint groan of protest from Bert, but Joe relaxed again,
relieved. They came to a corner and turned left on a broader and more
traveled road. “Turnpike,” announced the driver. “Lineville about
nine miles.” He flicked his whip northward. Then, after awhile, the
woods on their left gave way to meadow and Hal shouted: “There she
is!” And there she was, indeed, “she” being a curving, mile-long
expanse of frozen lake, nestling under the upreaching slope of Little
Rat. Here and there along the further shore small camps nestled
under snow-powdered pines or leafless hardwood, four or five in all,
deserted, every one. There had been several snow-falls up here in the
hills already――to-day was the twenty-seventh of December――but they had
been light, and the surface of the lake had been swept clean by the
wind after each flurry. The driver said he guessed there was a good
four inches of ice there, and the boys rejoiced.
“Great,” said Bert. “That’s more than enough to skate on and we won’t
have to cut through much to fish.”
“You aimin’ to fish?” inquired the driver. There was a tolerant note in
his voice that caused Hal to assume that he thought they’d be wasting
their time. But no, he guessed they’d catch some pickerel if they were
lucky. “I couldn’t ever see any fun in freezin’ my feet that way,
though,” he added.
“Well, it is rather cold weather,” laughed Hal, “but if we build a good
fire on shore it’s not so bad.”
The driver grunted doubtfully and the sleigh swung from the turnpike
into a narrow lane that wound between pine and spruce. The branches
sometimes flicked their faces and spattered dry snow about them. The
lake came into sight again close beside them, its darkening surface
seeming now like a great sheet of shimmering metal. Then the jingling
bells ceased and there, in a small clearing, stood the camp, its modest
bulk silhouetted against the ice. A rustic sign overhung a little path
that led down to the cabin, and on it the word RESTHERE was printed.
Followed a busy five minutes during which the bags and rolls and
packages were carried to the cabin and the driver accepted his modest
fee of three dollars, promised faithfully to return for them four days
later and climbed back to his seat. There, having pulled three of the
robes about him and gathered his reins in hand, he paused to cast a
dubious look about the twilit surroundings.
“Mean to stay here all alone?” he asked.
“Sure,” agreed Hal.
“H-m,” said the man. “Well, every fellow to his taste. Too blamed
lonesome to suit me, though. Good evenin’. Get ap, Judy!”
The cabin was of boards and battens and weather tight. There was
one good-sized room for all purposes save cooking. The kitchen――a
kitchenette Bert called it――was tacked on behind. It was just big
enough for the stove, the wood box, and the cupboard and a wide shelf
along one side that served as a table. The cabin held everything they
needed for their four-day sojourn, save food, and that they had brought
along in generous quantities. Cot beds, plenty of woolen blankets,
kitchen utensils, stoneware dishes, even reading matter in the shape of
magazines several months old awaited them. There was a small fire place
and, outside, a rampart like pile of cordwood, chestnut, hickory and
birch. Hal viewed its snug comfort with a proud proprietory air, while
Bert, his hands in the pockets of his capacious knickers, opined that
it was “one swell joint,” and Joe, who had never so much as seen a camp
before, was reduced to an almost awed admiration.
They “made camp,” as Hal phrased it, and then set about getting supper.
There was a pump outside the kitchen door, but it failed, of course,
to work, and Bert went off with a pail and a hatchet to get water from
the pond. Hal filled the wood box beside the stove and piled fagots in
the fireplace while Joe tore the wrappings from the groceries and set
out the tea and bread and strawberry jam and potted tongue and butter.
Presently the fire was crackling merrily in the stove, Bert came back
with the water, blowing on numbed fingers, and Hal unearthed the can
opener from the knife box in the cupboard. A quarter of an hour later
they were seated around the table in the big room with the hickory and
birch logs snapping and blazing beside them. Everything tasted better
than it had ever tasted before in any one’s recollection, and Joe made
two trips to the kitchen for more bread. Dish washing fell to the lot
of Bert, and Hal wiped. Joe drew a canvas chair to the fire, stretched
out tired limbs and was nearly asleep when the others finished. Bert
wanted to put his skates on and try the ice, and Hal after protesting
that it was too dark to have any fun, unenthusiastically agreed to
accompany him, but nothing came of it. An early rising, a tiresome
journey, the long drive in the cold air and, now, the lulling warmth of
the fire were too much for them. Joe went to sleep and snored frankly.
Long before nine they were all in bed and hard at it.
They were up before eight, which, used as they all were to being
called, coaxed and threatened into wakefulness, was doing pretty well.
Breakfast over they donned skates and went out on the lake. It was a
gorgeous morning, with a blue sky and golden sunlight. The air was cold
but dry, and, while the thermometer which Hal had hung out overnight
proclaimed the temperature to be eighteen above, they seemed scarcely
to need the heavy clothing they had put on. Bert was an excellent
skater, and Hal was almost as good. Hal, indeed, had won several prizes
for speed skating. Bert’s inclination ran more to fancy “stunts” and
tricks, and this morning he fairly outdid himself. Joe, a mere beginner
and a most unpromising one, moved diffidently about and watched, at
once admiring and envious. Presently they set out together to follow
the shore and explore. It wasn’t long before Joe had fallen behind, but
he was fairly content with his progress since, at least, he had managed
to keep on his feet; and that was something of a triumph for Joe! He
caught up with them when they stopped to climb ashore and investigate
the first of the neighboring camps, and lost them again beyond the turn
of the lake. They shouted laughing encouragement to him now and then,
but they didn’t wait for him, and he came on them next when they rested
on the edge of the little bridge that carried the pond road across the
mouth of Rat Brook. Old Forge Pond was fed by springs and by dozens
of trickling rills that wound down from the encompassing hills, but
it had only one outlet, and that was Rat Brook. It, too, was frozen
solid on top, although by listening intently they could hear the soft
rippling and gurgling of the water beneath. It was about twelve feet
broad at its widest and flowed off eastward between birch and alder and
witch-hazel to North Pemberton and, eventually, the Chicontomoc River.
“It would be sort of fun to skate down the brook,” suggested Bert. “How
far could you go, do you think?”
“Most to North Pemberton, I guess,” said Hal. “There isn’t much fall to
it. Maybe you’d have to walk around here and there, though. We’ll try
it some time, eh?”
Joe wasn’t nearly rested when they started on, but he dropped from the
bridge heroically and went, too, trying his best to copy Hal’s easy
motions and to keep his strokes long. He thought he was doing pretty
well, too, but pride goeth before a fall, and suddenly the ice rose
up and smote him heavily and complacency was swiftly jarred out of
him. The others, well ahead, waved consoling hands, but didn’t stop.
They were used to seeing Joe tumble. When he picked himself up he no
longer tried to emulate Hal, but continued in his own safer, if less
attractive style, reaching the camp some time after the others, rather
tired but suffering from no further contusions.
They chopped holes through the ice a little later and rigged their
lines, not without difficulty. By that time their thoughts turned
toward food and the fishing operations were postponed until afternoon.
Then, with a good fire burning on the shore, they baited their hooks
and sat down to watch the tiny wisps of cloth, which, torn from an old
red tablecloth, shone bravely in the afternoon sunlight. They sat there
nearly an hour before any of the three flags showed signs of life. Then
Hal’s jerked upward and Hal, scrambling to his feet, skated swiftly
toward it, so swiftly, in fact, that he over-skated the hole. But he
landed a fair-sized pickerel and was proudly displaying the agitated
fish when Joe gave a shrill yell and went plunging, floundering, arms
waving, to where, further up the lake his particular little red flag
was threatening to follow the line under the ice. The others, watching,
whooped with glee at Joe’s antics and roared when, losing his balance
at last, he crashed to the ice and arrived at the hole on the seat of
his knickers! He, too, captured his trophy, which, on comparison, was
found to be a half inch longer than Hal’s, although Hal did his utmost
to stretch his pickerel enough to offset the difference. At dusk they
had five fish. Hal had caught two, Joe had caught two and Bert one.
But Bert’s was so much larger that there couldn’t be any discussion.
It measured just seventeen and five-eighths inches by the yard stick.
Bert was very insistent on the five-eighths! Both he and Joe disclaimed
any knowledge of the gentle art of cleaning fish, and so that duty fell
to Hal. Supper that night was wonderful, for fried pickerel――even if
not dipped in crumbs, and these weren’t――are delicious at any time and
doubly so when you have caught them yourself.