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IT was two weeks after the regatta, and again the boys were on the water. Six of the Wilders had taken advantage of a pleasant Saturday afternoon to walk up to the lake, and take out the _Flemming_ for two or three hours’ fishing. For some time they had been watching their lines with a patience which was but ill-rewarded, for they had only a meagre number of worthless little fish to show for their waiting. Now, at the suggestion of Max, they were about to seek a fresh ground, and with their light anchor still dragging, they were slowly rowing up to the northern end of the lake, to try their fortunes in a deep, quiet pool which they had known of old. Suddenly Harry paused on his oars.
“Halt! I say,” he exclaimed. “This place is too cool and pleasant to leave; let’s lie off here for half an hour and enjoy it. We shall have time then for all the fishing we want.”
“Only four weeks more,” sighed Jack; “and then where’ll we be?”
“‘We’re goin’ ’ome; we’re goin’ ’ome; Our ship is _at_ the shore; An’ you may pack your ’aversack, For we won’t come back no more,’”
warbled Max sentimentally, from his seat in the bow. “We’ll be the seniors then,” he added complacently, “and you’d better believe we’ll show you how to do things.”
“No use to put on airs, Max,” retorted Jack. “There’ll never be another class like ninety-one, and you may as well make up your mind to it.”
“Conceit, thy name is—Howard!” paraphrased Max, dropping his oar and bending over the edge of the boat, to paddle in the clear water.
“Oh, Hal,” asked Alex, all at once; “how comes on the poem?”
Harry groaned, as he lay down on the narrow seat and turned his face up to the blue sky above.
“It doesn’t come,” he said, “I’ve a few ideas, but I can’t make them rhyme. I don’t see why, in the name of all common sense, you fellows put me in as class poet.”
“Probably because there wasn’t anybody else to do it,” suggested Max benevolently. “When we come to our class day plans, though, we sha’n’t have any trouble over our poet, we have one all ready and waiting to step into office.”
“Wing, of course,” responded Max. “Didn’t you know he wrote poetry? He does, ever so much, and grates his teeth, and his eyes roll like anything while he’s doing it. Then he tears it up. I saw one bit of it, though. I’ve forgotten just how it was; but it went something like this:—