“It’s too late to do any thing to-night,” said he, at length. “I reckon you boys have got something good to eat in them lockers? I thought so. Well, suppose we go ashore and camp.”
Joe and his friends readily agreed to this proposition. They had spent five days and nights in their boat, and they longed for a good, sound sleep on a bed of balsam-boughs, with the spreading branches of some friendly pine for shelter instead of their water-proof tent. They were not afraid to go into camp on shore now that they had the stalwart guide for company. Matt and his boys would not be likely to show themselves as long as they knew that he was with them; but the trouble was, they didn’t know it, although they were in plain sight when the boys built their fire on the bank, and laid their plans to pay them a visit before morning.
AS OUR three friends and their backwoods companion were old campaigners, they did not spend much time in getting ready for the night. A roaring fire was started, the jack-lamp hung upon a neighboring tree, and by the aid of the light thus afforded them, Joe Wayring, who had by this time got into a suit of dry clothes, cleaned the fish which Arthur and Roy had captured during his absence; Arthur Hastings fried them and made the tea; Mr. Swan prepared the bacon and pancakes; and Roy cut the balsam boughs and arranged the beds. In less than three quarters of an hour after they drew their boats upon the beach, they sat down to a supper that would have tempted any healthy boy to eat, no matter whether he was hungry or not.
“Now, Mr. Swan,” said Joe, when the dishes had been washed in the clear waters of the pond, and the tin bucket, which contained the supply of fish for breakfast, had been hung up by a string so that the minks that were sure to come around during the night could not steal them, “tell us a story, please.”
“About what?” inquired the guide, as he filled his pipe.
“Oh, about the first panther you ever shot.”
“Or about the bear you killed with a club while he was running off with one of your pigs,” suggested Roy.
Mr. Swan was always ready. After he had taken a few pulls at his brier-root to make sure that it was well-started he began and told not one story, but a dozen or more. He kept his little audience interested until ten o’clock, then the lamp was turned out, the fire replenished, and the campers sought their beds of balsam-boughs. Lulled by the rippling of the waves upon the beach at their feet, and by the low music of the breeze as it toyed with the branches over their heads, their slumber was deep and dreamless. Even the usually watchful Jim seemed to think that there was no responsibility resting upon him for this particular night, and that the mere presence of the guide was all the protection the camp needed, for he too slept soundly, and snored while he slept. Consequently he did not see the uncouth object which drew out of the darkness that covered the surface of the pond, and slowly and cautiously approached the camp. The object was Matt Coyle’s scow, and in it were the squatter and both his boys. The latter were plying their paddles with noiseless motion, and Matt was kneeling in the bow, waving first one hand and then the other to show them what course to take.