The gallant bottle with its aerial companion attached was not yet set
free upon the angry waves of Black Lake. For the epoch-making
announcement must not be premature and the good bark _Hop-toad_ had
still some yards to travel before bunking against the farther shore.
Indeed, it did not bunk against the farther shore at all. Like the ships
of another famous adventurer (Christopher Columbus) it reached a
destination, but not the destination intended. It flopped against the
shore at the northern extremity of the lake, where the natives
(consisting of three turtles) fled precipitately upon the approach of
the explorers.
“We’ll have to pull it around,” said the leader of the Hop-toads; “we’ll
have to coast along shore. Our port is due west of the camp. Maybe it’s
kind of south by due west. Come on, let’s pull.”
“Is it deep enough all the way around by the shore?” Howard asked.
“You mean the coast, not the shore,” said Pee-wee; “we have to go
coastwise; we have to hug the coast; that doesn’t mean putting our arms
around it.”
By reason of the surrounding hills the shore of Black Lake was
precipitous all the way round, except where the camp was. The water was
therefore comparatively deep, even close under the shore. Wriggling in
and out of the tiny passes near the lake wound a trail which would have
completely encircled it, notwithstanding many smaller obstacles, save
for Goldenrod Cove which was the beginning of the lake’s main outlet.
By dint of pulling on the bushes and pushing with a couple of scout
staffs and dancing on the unsusceptible platform, they succeeded in
getting it along the shore till the camp was almost opposite them across
the water.
The progress of the gallant bark was something like the progress of a
stubborn mule, and it certainly hugged the shore with an altogether
affectionate embrace. It would flop along but nothing would tempt it to
tear itself away from the sheltering bushes. These hung so low that in
places they playfully removed our hero’s hat and ruffled his curly hair
and deposited volleys of clinging burs upon his martial regalia.
Scout Willie and Scout Howard wrestled valiantly with these leafy
tormentors, closing their eyes and sweeping the assaulting clusters
aside as the noble float flopped resolutely along. But they were covered
with burs from head to foot; there were prickling burs on their
stockings, down their necks, and worst of all, in their shoes. Burs
lurked in their hair and would not be routed. One bur, more valiant than
the rest, dared to penetrate within the khaki shirt of our hero, taking
up a strategic position in the small of his back where it kept up a
running assault with a hundred million tiny prongs. It was in vain that
he approached this invader from the rear; in vain that he wriggled and
twisted and almost tied his heroic body in a knot. The tormentor was not
to be harried or dislodged.
“I got burs all over me,” said Scout Willie; “wait a minute, I have to
take off my shoe.”
“Feel down my neck,” said Scout Howard; “it tickles.”
“Do you think that an explorer--do you think that--Peary--was scared of
burs?” Pee-wee demanded contemptuously, the while madly scratching his
back.
“Maybe they don’t have burs at the North Pole,” Scout Howard ventured.
“Don’t you suppose there were burs in France?” Pee-wee said.
“Maybe French ones aren’t so bad,” Howard suggested, removing his shoe
and extracting a whole regiment of burs, while Willie made a sudden raid
up one sleeve with his hand.
“Burs are--they’re just like natives,” Pee-wee said. “You’re not scared
of natives, are you? Scouts are supposed to love everything in the
woods.”
“They ain’t in the woods when they’re on stockings, are they?” Willie
asked, rather boldly.
Our hero was now reduced to the use of one arm in poling the float, his
other hand being continually engaged in scratching his writhing back.
With that one stalwart arm he tried to keep the float far enough off
shore to be clear of the assaulting legions. Willie Rivers, having
battled nobly, sat helpless on the stubborn float, holding a shoe in one
hand and clearing the gory field of his stockings with the other. The
naked, undefended area between the ends of his loose khaki trousers and
the tops of his stockings was swarming with the enemy.
The tent, knocked askew by the assaulting branches, was covered with
clinging burs. It seemed to reel and stagger under the attacks of the
aroused and enraged brush. All the famous sea fights of history were
nothing to this. Scout Howard, warding off the relentless onslaughts
with one sturdy arm, was trying vainly to reach the small of his back
over his left shoulder with the other.
Suddenly the voice of our hero rose above the roar of battle, “Look out
for the poison ivy! Give her a push out! Quick!”
Withdrawing his hand from the forlorn enterprise down his back, Scout
Howard grasped a scout staff and gave a mighty shove against the shore
sending the harassed cruiser clear of this ghastly peril just as a low
hanging branch, lurking unnoticed like a sharpshooter, toppled over the
keg of provisions and it went rolling into the water.
This dastardly attempt to starve out a gallant adversary was met by
quick action from the leader of the Hop-toads. Giving one frantic look
at a package of Uneeda biscuits floating near the bobbing keg, he
plunged into the angry waters and returned triumphant with several
varieties of commissary stores, while Scout Rivers, forgetting all else
at the thought of his commander’s wrath, reached out with his scout
staff and brought the rolling keg safely aboard.
But alas, just in the moment of this heroic rescue, the float, unguided
for the moment, bobbed plunk against the shore and into a veritable
jungle of tangled vines.
“Wild roses! Wild roses! Look out for the thorns!” cried Commander
Harris.
But it was too late. Already they were surrounded, enveloped, embraced,
in a very labyrinth of Nature’s barbed wire entanglements. The wounds
and scars of battle were already upon them. The uncovered portions of
Scout Harris were tattooed with a system of scratches which ran here and
there like bloody trails. A scratch was on his nose and his hair was
pulled up in the combing process of the thorned tentacles. The martial
regalia of the three warriors was in tatters.
But they did not give up. Lying flat upon the raft they pushed with all
their might and main till their staffs sunk into the spongy shore. And
at last, by dint of superhuman effort, the cruiser _Hop-toad_ emerged
from this fearful trap and was happily caught in the flowing water which
bespoke the neighborhood of Goldenrod Cove.