Probably Bob Stuart would never have been asked to join the camping
party had he not been the best canoeist in the Club. He was so much
younger than the other half dozen that composed the party that his
joining was much discussed, but there were no two opinions about Bob's
paddling nor yet about his ability to pitch a tent, cast a fly, shoot
small game at long range, and, when you are far up North, on a canoe
cruise, and have to depend on the forest and river to supply your
dinner, you don't sneer at an enthusiastic fisherman or a good shot. So
one royal August day Bob found himself on the train with six University
graduates, bound for "up North," for a glorious three weeks' outing.
Their canoes, tents and duffle were all stored away in the express car
ahead. Their cares and their studies were packed away in the weeks left
behind, their hearts as merry, their clothes as hideous as a jolly crowd
of merry-makers could desire. It was a long, hot, dusty railway journey,
but at last the tiny Northern railway station hove in sight, the rasping
screech of the sawmill rivalled the shrill call of the locomotive, and
directly behind the little settlement stretched the smooth surface of
"Lake Nameless," ready and waiting to be ruffled by the dip of paddle
blades.
It does not take long for seven practical campers to get their kit and
canoes in shape to pitch canvas for the night, and just as the sun
dropped behind a rim of dense fir forest, "the Saucy Seven," as the boys
had christened themselves, lighted their first camp fire and hung their
kettle for supper. The two tents were already up, white and gleaming
against the lake line, the three cruising canoes were safely beached for
the night, blankets were already spread over beds of hemlock boughs, and
the goodly smell of frying bacon arose temptingly in the warm, still,
twilight air. Seven hungry mouths took a long time to be satisfied, but
the frying-pan and the tea-pot were empty at last, and the boys ready to
turn in early, after their long journey and busy settling. The first
night in camp is always a restless one. The flapping tent, the straining
guy ropes, the strange wild sounds and scents seem to prop your eyelids
open for hours. The night birds winging overhead, the far laugh of loons
across the waters, the twigs creaking and snapping beneath the feet of
little, timid animals, the soft singing of the pines above the canvas,
these things get into one's blood, one's brain, and almost before you
know it the night is gone, and a whole chorus of song arises with the
coming of day. There is nothing in all the world more enjoyable than
tumbling from your blankets, to unlace the "flap" of the tent, to fling
it wide and step out into the soft grey world before sunrise, to swallow
whole breaths of fresh, sweet morning air; then to plunge into a still,
cool lake, and drive sleep from the corners of your eyes, as the winking
sun drives night from the forest. Then another enjoyable thing is to
have Tom, Dick or Harry hustle about and get the kettle boiling and fish
frying while you are yet plunging about like a frog, and by the time you
have rushed ashore, and into your shorts and sweater and "wigwam" shoes,
the aforesaid pleasant persons have breakfast ready, and you come around
just in time to make away with vast bowls of coffee, and unlimited fish
and toast.
This is all very well, if you have the whole lake and its outletting
river all to yourselves, with no one to scare the fish and game, and
none to trespass on your camp ground; but picture to yourselves the
consternation that assailed the boys when, the following night, the
train brought in another camping crowd, that trailed up the shore with
a great deal of fuss, and pitched camp directly across the point from
them--a crowd of at least ten men. No rollicking boys there, all big,
full-grown men with beards and whiskers, with a dozen gun cases,
stretcher camp beds, and some scarlet velvet rugs--actually _rugs_.
The boys just stood and stared, then sneered.
"Nice 'Saucy Seven' those chaps will make of our holiday," groaned one
of the grads. "'Sorry Seven,' we'd better call ourselves, I say, and
to-morrow I'm for moving, striking camp at daylight and getting away
from that gang that camps with _rugs_." The last word took on the
expression of an article of actual disgrace. "Hello! They're running up
the colors," interrupted Bob. "It's a Union Jack, all right. Perhaps
they're not such rummies, after all."
Then, after much peering and squinting, they made out that the biggest
tent stretched directly at the base of the flagstaff, and contained the
despised scarlet rugs, which the boys were still jeering at when they
noticed a little canoe, singly manned, put out from the rocky ledge and
make swiftly towards them. The Saucy Seven unbent sufficiently to all
go in a body to the landing. Their minds were fully made up to invite
the intruder to "shinny on his own side," and not come "moseying"
around the camp, when the canoeist beached his bow and sprang lightly
ashore. He was a very handsome young man, clean shaven and merry-eyed,
and, touching his cap lightly, he said in a tremendously English voice:
"Beg pardon, gentlemen, sorry to trouble you, but His Excellency, the
Governor-General, presents his compliments, and would you kindly lend
him a can of condensed milk? Our cook seems to have forgotten
everything. We haven't a drop for our coffee."
The Saucy Seven raised seven disgraceful-looking caps, but only one
spoke. It was the biggest grad. "Why, we're honored. We had no idea who
it was."
"Oh, that's all right," answered the Englishman. "You know His
Excellency goes camping for a day or two every year, just for the fun
and fish and things."
"Fish? Does he like fish?" asked Bob. Then, without waiting for a reply,
he disappeared, only to return with the can of condensed milk and three
splendid four-pound bass he had landed for their own supper. He looked
shyly at the young aide-de-camp, handing him the can, and said, "Will
you present our compliments to His Excellency, and ask him to accept
these for supper?"
"Delighted, I'm sure," said the officer. "He's fond of bass. Thanks
for the milk, gentlemen. Perhaps we can help you out some time." And
in another minute the canoe was skimming away towards the point, where
the Union Jack hung idly against a background of firs, but just before
the Englishman was out of hearing the big grad yelled, "Tell the
Governor-General that the fish were caught and sent by Bobbie."
"All right," came faintly across the distance, with a wave of the smart
little cap, and a bright backward smile from the handsome Englishman.
The Saucy Seven looked at each other, then the big grad simply expressed
things in one explosive "Well!"
"No, I don't think we'll move to-morrow," said one.
"Move from here!" said another.
"Well, I'm a frazzle," added a third.
"The Governor-General of all Canada," gasped another.
"And borrowing milk from us!" chimed in two more.
"No fish for supper," said Bob, "and my fault, too, but I'll get some
for breakfast, or my name'll be Dennis." And he did get fish for
breakfast, which was evidently more than His Excellency did, for about
sunset the following evening a guide came paddling over with a large,
square envelope directed to