WITNESSES THE DEPARTURE OF THE FOUR ON A CANOE TRIP AND BRINGS THEM
INTO CAMP FOR THE NIGHT
Half the inhabitants of the camp saw them off and, being envious,
professed to be glad they were not going themselves.
“Look out for bears, Tommy,” counseled Joe Carter. “You’d make a nice
fat breakfast for them.”
Joe had very willingly contributed his canoe to the expedition, but he
would have liked mightily to go along.
Finally the last of the things were stowed away in the two canoes and
the paddles were dipped.
“Be very careful,” said Mr. Clinton, “and take good care of yourselves.
Good-by.”
“Good-by!” yelled the crowd on the landing, and----
“Good-by, sir,” called the Four. “Good-by, fellows!”
In the excitement of the moment the “Babe” fell off the pier, and
during the subsequent hilarity the two canoes sped out into the lake.
In one sat Nelson and Dan, in the other Bob and Tom. They were to
change about when they reached Northwest Bay. As they swung around the
corner of Bear Island a number of the Wickasaw fellows were on the
pier. From the flagpole hung the objectionable white banner.
“Take it down,” shouted Dan. “It’s out of date!”
“Come and get it,” answered one of the assembly.
“Oh, we haven’t got time,” said Nelson.
“One’s enough for us,” added Tom.
Whereupon they were subjected to a chorus of angry jeers and hoots.
That raised their spirits still higher and they shot under the bridge
at Crescent as happy a quartet as ever paddled their own--or any one
else’s--canoe. There was very little wind and what there was favored
their progress. Little of interest happened during the voyage to the
head of Hipp’s Pond. By that time they were all glad to lay down the
paddles and stretch tired arms and legs. From the pond across to
the bay was a matter of two miles over a well-traveled trail. After
a few minutes of rest the outfit was apportioned and they set out.
Dan carried one canoe and Bob the other, and Nelson and Tom shared
the luggage. A seventy-pound canoe weighs one hundred pounds at the
beginning of the carry, two hundred at the end of the first half mile,
and something like a ton at the end of the mile. After that it gains
four tons every three hundred yards. That’s one reason it took the
party just short of an hour and a half to cover that two miles. They
changed burdens frequently, but, even so, when Nelson suggested that
they return all the way by water and train, cutting out the present
feature of the trip, they were unanimous in favor of the suggestion.
“I never knew a canoe weighed so much,” grunted Dan, stumbling over a
log. “I’ll bet the Chicora isn’t half so heavy as this pesky thing!”
“Wish we’d brought only one of them,” said Tom, who was struggling with
the other. “Don’t see what we needed two for. You fellows wouldn’t let
me bring things that were really necessary, but you had to saddle us
with a canoe that isn’t needed at all.”
“Dry up, Tommy,” said Nelson. “You’re doing finely, if only you’d lift
your feet now and then. Talking about unnecessary things, now, I don’t
see what you have two feet for; one of them is big enough for any
ordinary person. Look out there! I told you so!”
Thereupon burdens were set down, not unwillingly, while the canoe was
lifted off of the prostrate form of Tom and balanced over his shoulders
again.
“Well, we’re almost there,” said Bob encouragingly. “And this is the
last time we’ll have to lug things.”
“Almost there!” grumbled Tom. “You’ve been saying that ever since we
started. Don’t believe there is any ‘there’!”
But there was, and presently it came into sight, a narrow strip of blue
water just barely ruffled in the breeze. When they reached the bank
they laid aside their loads and stretched themselves out gratefully in
the shade.
“Hooray!” murmured Dan.
“Me too,” sighed Tom.
Bob, who appeared the least fatigued of the party, got out the tin
cup and served drinking water and was called blessed. Nelson took the
camera from the case and snapped it several times at the recumbent
forms. Then the canoes were slipped into the water and the luggage
arranged again. This time Nelson and Bob paddled together, and Dan and
Tom. As they started away Tom waved his arm politely toward the trail
through which they had journeyed.
“Good morning, Carry,” he called.
And Dan was heard threatening that if he ever said anything like that
again he would be tipped out of the canoe.
“And this time,” added Dan, “I won’t jump in and rescue you!”
Noon saw them opposite Beacon Point, and heading across the water they
found a comfortable spot and drew the canoes up on to a tiny sandy
beach. They had provided themselves with a cold lunch for the first
meal and they ate it lying around on their elbows or stretched flat
on their backs in the shade of a big white birch which fluttered its
leaves above their faces. The lunch was principally sandwiches and
gingerbread and apples, but it tasted better than any meal they had
eaten for a long time, and Tom begged to be allowed to attack the other
supplies after his share of the feast had vanished. He was heartlessly
denied and presently fell asleep, where he lay and snored beautifully
in four distinct keys for half an hour. Perhaps the others slept a
little as well. The sun was delightfully warm and life held no cares.
By one o’clock they were on their way again. Camps and their
attendant landings, with here and there a hotel or boarding-house,
became frequent along the shores, while in the distance launches and
steam-boats shone like white specks against the blue water. Now and
then a canoe or sailboat passed them with its merry party.
“Seems to me,” said Dan, who was paddling at bow in Bob’s canoe, “that
folks down here don’t have anything to do but float around on the
water. It’s a sick way to spend vacation.”
“What ought they to do?” asked Bob carelessly.
“Anything so as not to be so plumb lazy. Look, there’s a swell camp
over there, Bob.”
“And that’s a dandy on the little island over there. Hey, Nelson, how’d
you like to have to live there all summer?”
“I wouldn’t kick. That’s swell, isn’t it? There are some mighty fine
places along here. It’s prettier than Chicora in that way.”
“Yes, but you’d soon get tired of having so many camps around you; it’s
too crowded. What’s the point over there, I wonder.” And Bob pulled his
map out for the fortieth time. “Shingle Point,” he announced. “Now, why
the dickens do they call it that? It doesn’t look like a shingle, it
doesn’t feel like a shingle, and it doesn’t smell like a shingle.”
“You’re a silly chump, Bob,” said Dan. “It’s called Shingle Point
because it scratches like a shingle, of course.”
“How does a shingle scratch?” asked Nelson.
“With its nails,” chuckled Dan.
“Splash him for me, please,” Nelson begged, and Bob obligingly obeyed,
sending a fine shower against Dan’s back.
“I suppose that’s Clapboard Island there off Shingle Point?” asked Tom.
“And that’s Shutter Cove yonder,” said Dan.
“Well, that looks like a boarding-house on the hill,” added Nelson.
“Maybe we could get a planked steak there,” Bob suggested.
“Oh, this is awful,” laughed Nelson. “Come on, Tommy, let’s get out of
this atmosphere.” And they bent to their paddles in an endeavor to draw
away from the other craft. But Bob and Dan were ready for a race and
they had it out for a quarter of a mile, nip and tuck, Tom, who had yet
to acquire skill at paddling, throwing water over himself and whoever
came within six yards of him, but nevertheless managing to keep his end
up. When they called the contest off, both parties claiming victory,
they had reached a point where it was necessary to choose their course.
Before them the island which Tom had dubbed Clapboard barred their
direct path and it became a question of going to right or left. Bob
consulted the map once more.
“It doesn’t make much difference,” he said. “The right is a bit nearer
according to this.”
“Right it is, then,” answered Dan.
“Let’s quit for a while,” said Tom. “My arms are lamer than thunder.”
“All right, Tommy.” So they laid aside their paddles, scooped the water
up in their hands and drank, and then disposed themselves comfortably
in the canoes.
“Is the tide going in or out?” asked Nelson absent-mindedly. Then he
wondered why the others laughed at him until he recollected that he was
not on salt water. Bob brought his canoe alongside the other and held
it there while they bobbed lazily about in the afternoon sunlight.
“Who knows where the fishing-tackle is?” asked Tom.
“I do,” Dan answered, “but we haven’t any bait.”
“I’ll go ashore and dig some. We ought to have some fish for supper.”
“I’ll eat myself all the fish you’ll catch, Tommy,” said Bob. “But go
ahead and get your bait. How many lines are there?”
“Two,” said Tom. “You take the other and I bet I’ll catch more’n you
do.”
“All right, Izaak Walton. Run away and get your bait. But it’s
dollars to doughnuts you won’t find anything but earthworms, and no
self-respecting fish will bite at those.”
“A chub will take anything,” said Dan.
“Yes, but we won’t take the chub,” answered Nelson. “I’ll go hungry
before I’ll eat those things.”
“Chub are all right,” said Dan. “You ask Tommy; he knows all about
chub, don’t you, Tommy?”
But Tommy, searching for the hatchet, made no response. Armed with
this weapon in lieu of a spade he paddled in to the shore, Nelson, on
his back with one foot over each gunwale, taking slight interest in
the proceedings. Tom disappeared into the woods and was presently back
again with a varied collection of worms and bugs gathered from rotten
logs and from the earth. They returned to the other canoe, and he and
Bob made ready their lines.
“I’d like to know what sort of beasts these are,” said Bob disgustedly.
“I’m afraid to touch some of them. Here, I’ll use the earthworms and
leave these fancy things to you; and I hope they bite you. There, here
goes for a whale.”
He threw his line out, and Tom followed a moment later with his. Then
they waited while Dan and Nelson sarcastically made bets on the result.
After five minutes without a nibble Bob grew restive.
“Any one know whether there are any fish in this lake?” he asked.
“All fished out, I guess,” said Dan. But at that moment Tom gave a
suppressed whoop of excitement and began to let out his line.
“Play him, Tommy,” said Nelson lazily. “It’s probably a codfish.”
“Fu-fu-fu-feels like a wh-wh-whale!” answered Tom.
“Now don’t get excited,” advised Dan. “Give him his head for a while.
Maybe it’s a sunfish.”
But Tom was really having all he could attend to, for whatever was on
the end of his line was making the gamest sort of a fight. Tom had to
let out several yards of line, for he was none too sure of his leader.
Then he began to take it in again a little at a time until the fish,
which seemed to have given up the struggle, was not six feet away. They
all peered wonderingly into the water, but it was too rough to allow
the fish to be seen.
“I’m going to pull him in,” said Tom in a hoarse whisper. “You fellows
su-su-stand by to gu-gu-grab him!” Then he pulled in hand over hand,
there was a thrashing a yard away and a momentary glimpse of a big
silvery body that turned and twisted. Then Tom sat down suddenly in the
canoe, sending it down to the gunwale and shipping several quarts of
water, while the end of the line, minus leader and hook, flew over his
head.
“_Gosh!_” exclaimed Tom, picking himself up and looking disgustedly
into the water.
“Say, he was a peach!” said Dan. “What do you suppose he was?”
“Trout,” said Bob.
“Salmon,” said Nelson.
“He was the biggest I ever saw in fresh water, anyway,” Dan declared.
Tom was feverishly fitting a new leader and baiting his hook.
“Maybe he’ll be back,” he whispered excitedly.
“Not he,” said Bob. “He’s scared to death. I’ll bet he’s half a mile
away by this time. Hello!” He had drawn in his own line, forgotten in
the excitement, and found the hook empty. “I got a bite at last.”
“So did the fish,” laughed Nelson.
Tom’s “whale” didn’t put in any appearance, but at the end of half an
hour or so he had four fair-sized bass and two chub to his credit,
while Bob had only one small perch to show.
“You win, Tommy,” he said, winding up his line. “The old farm is yours,
to say nothing of the wood-lot on the hill. Now let’s get along. It’s
after four and we ought to get to Morris Island by five.”
So they took to the paddles again and glided on through the channel
that divided the island from the mainland. At the end of the island
they met one of the steamers, her deck well filled with passengers who
waved and shouted to them as they swept past. There was lots to see
now, for they were well inshore and the houses and cabins were thick
thereabouts. At the end of an hour their camp-site was in view. Morris
Island lay well out in the lake and was one of the largest there. A
few camps were scattered over it, but there was plenty of room for a
night’s lodging. They crept along the shore until they found a little
cove with a gravelly beach. Here they disembarked, stretched their
limbs, and set about making camp.
The canoes were emptied, carried up under the trees, and laid bottom
side up for the night. Tom went off after firewood, and the others
unpacked the cooking things and set up the tents. Bob, who had had
experience in camping, took command. The blankets were distributed,
water was brought, and a big log was rolled down to the edge of the
beach. Tom came back with his first armful of wood, and Bob set about
the building of the fire. With some small stones dug from the beach
he built a fireplace, the back wall of which was the tree trunk.
Between the side walls he dug out the gravel for a depth of six inches,
continuing the excavations for a foot or so in front. Then with a
broad, flat stone he made a hearth, fixing it in such a way that there
was a draft from front to back. On the flat stone he threw some dried
grass and twigs and lighted them. Then Tom’s supply was drawn upon
and in a moment there was a roaring fire. With the hatchet Bob cut a
stout branch, sharpened one end, and thrust it into the earth so that
it leaned over the fireplace. From this, just above the flames, he
depended the water-kettle. The cooking utensils and the provisions were
spread out and Nelson and Dan were set to cleaning the fish. The bread
was cut--Tom managing to gash his finger in the operation--the coffee
made, and the potatoes were washed and plumped into the boiling water.
Meanwhile the skillet was leaning against the fireplace getting hot.
Dan and Tom and Nelson sat down and watched, jumping up now and then to
do Bob’s bidding, but for the most part cultivating their appetites by
observing the preparation of supper. Bob seemed to know just what to do
and how to do it. By the time the potatoes were almost done the fish
were frying in the skillet and the coffee-pot was singing a tune of its
own.
Then plates were passed around and in a moment there was a deep and
eloquent silence that lasted until Tommy, with a sigh, laid down his
plate and reached for the frying-pan. “Work,” quoth Tom, “makes a
fellow hungry.”
“Work!” answered Nelson scathingly.
“Work!” grunted Dan.
“Work!” laughed Bob.
“Huh!” Tom retaliated. “Who caught these fish?”
“Well, even if you did catch them you needn’t eat them all,” said Dan,
wresting the skillet from his hands. “There are others, my boy. Pour me
some more coffee, Bob, will you?”
While they ate, with the smoke from the dying fire floating straight
into the air and the last rays of the sun tinging the lake with
rose-gold, the steamer from The Weirs passed a little way out, her
cabin windows alight and her lanterns flashing red and green and white
across the mirror-like surface. Bob waved the coffee-pot, incidentally
splashing Tom’s face with the contents, and a group at the stern of
the boat fluttered their handkerchiefs. Then the dishes were washed at
the edge of the lake and the fire replenished. After that they took
a stroll along the shore, pausing now and then to shy pebbles at the
muskrats which, with little bullet-shaped heads just above the water,
swam hither and thither, leaving long ripples behind them. Back to
camp they wandered just at dark and sat for a while in the light of
the little fire, and then they rolled themselves in their blankets and
dropped off to sleep one by one, Tom’s unmusical snores alone breaking
the silence. And so ended the first day of the trip; not an exciting
one, to be sure, but one of the happiest of the summer.