Oakdale Boys in Camp. Scott Morgan

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      “As a general all-round Nimrod,” replied Piper, forking a piece of bacon and depositing it on a slice of the blackened toast, “I’m simply a wonder. The fish don’t have a ghost of a chance when I get after them.”

      “Hush!” cautioned Grant. “Speak low. There may be some fish near this point, and, if they should hear you and carry the news of your presence to their relatives and friends, it might produce a tremendous panic among the ‘finny denizens of this landlocked deep;’ and we don’t want to scare them all away.”

      “I don’t know much abaout fishin’,” mumbled Crane, his mouth full of food, “so I guess I’ll git yeou to give me some lessons, Sleuth.”

      “Piper,” said Stone, seating himself after pouring the coffee, “must indeed be a past master in woodcraft, hunting and fishing. He’s the only fellow who has brought a sleeping bag. I say, Sleuth, where did you get that thing?”

      “Borrowed it of Jim Bailey, who outfitted to go to the Klondike ten years ago and never went,” answered Piper. “Oh, you fellows can have your beds, but I propose to do this thing up in style; and, while you’re tossing restlessly on boughs and blankets, I’ll be snugly ensconced in my cozy sleeping bag. They are great things when you’re camping out; Bailey said so.”

      Chattering and bantering in this manner, the boys thoroughly enjoyed the meal, their faces lighted by the soft, warm rays of the sun, that was on the verge of sinking behind the wooded range at the far side of the lake. Already the white hotel could barely be discerned, and the purplish shadows were creeping out from the base of the hills. The lake lay like a mirror, with no breath of air rippling its glassy surface. The peace of evening in the solitudes was closing in.

      “Let’s hustle up a bit, fellows,” urged Grant. “We must cut some boughs for our beds before it gets too dark. If we can only get some genuine balsam boughs, it will be right fine.”

      “There’s some balsam trees back beyond where I cut the firewood,” announced Crane; “but now that I’ve et I feel so lazy I don’t care much abaout cuttin’ boughs. What’s the use to trouble aourselves tonight; we’ve got blankets to roll up in.”

      “The blankets are all right,” returned Rodney; “but anyone who tries to sleep in them with no boughs beneath him is sure going to find it uncomfortable before morning. The ground itself gets mighty hard, as I know from experience, and a chap who has been working and perspiring will feel plenty cold before morning comes, no matter how warm and easy he is when he first rolls in. I propose to have some boughs under me.”

      “With my sleeping bag,” said Sleuth, “I need nothing of the sort.”

      “Then,” said Rod, “you can gather up the dishes and wash them while the rest of us are cutting boughs. Everyone must do something.”

      Dish washing being especially abhorrent to him, Piper groaned and grumbled, although he did not refuse to perform the task to which he had been assigned. The others, provided with the axe, hatchet and strong knives, set forth, Grant leading the way, in search of the necessary boughs. Not far from the tent, in a little open spot, Sile paused a moment to kick off the top of an ants’ nest and watch the frantic creatures which were exposed to view in that manner.

      “To-morrer,” he said, “if we’ve got it to spare, I’ll turn some kerosene over this ’ere colony, and that’ll fix ’em. We don’t want any of them things crawling into the tent to nip us at night. I tell yeou they can bite some.”

      “They must be almost as dangerous as Carl’s ‘gouger,’” laughed Rodney; “but we can’t fool with them now.”

      Crane had really located some trees of balsam fir, and, with the shadows deepening, they made haste to cut several huge armfuls, which they carried back and piled in front of the tent. This accomplished, the bed rails were cut off at the proper length and smoothly trimmed of branches and knots, after which they were placed lengthwise in the tent, one being rolled up close against the wall, while the other, each end protruding from beneath the canvas so that it could be pinned fast to the ground, was laid parallel about four feet away. The space between those logs was then filled with the boughs, all carefully spread out, the softest tips being reserved for the top. It was necessary to light the lantern that they might see to spread the blankets, but finally the beds were arranged to their entire satisfaction.

      Sleuth, having finished his task with the dishes, removed the stove top and replenished the fire, reclined in the light of the blaze and with a superior air watched his laboring comrades, secure in the belief that his sleeping bag would provide luxury and comfort denied the others.

      Grant had brought along a guitar, an instrument presented to him by a cowboy on his father’s ranch, and this he now produced and put in tune, seated on the chopping block near the fire. The rest found comfortable positions near at hand, and, having strummed a while, Rod struck into “The Spanish Cavalier.” He had a clear, melodious voice, and he carried the air, the others joining, with the exception of Piper, who could not sing a note to save his life.

      The hushed and breathless trees seemed to be listening. The melody of the song floated far over the shrouded bosom of the lake, beyond which the light of the hotel gleamed at the foot of the cliff, on the highest crest of which a great white cross had been planted. The waving firelight flooded over the boys, seated or half reclining upon the ground, with the tent standing out snowy white against the black background of the forest. There was no moon, and overhead a few vapory stars peered through the haze which had spread across the sky. At times the fire, rising, flung a gilded gleam out upon the placid water off Pleasant Point.

      The glamor and poetry of the time and place was distinctly felt by all those boys. It was a splendid thing to be alive and to be there, a little band of congenial friends and comrades granted the ever-to-be-remembered delights of this midsummer outing in the best days of enthusiastic, unsatiated, golden youth. In years to come, when the hard, cutting edges of life’s experiences and cares had rasped away their fervor and left them, perhaps, incapable of deep enjoyment of simple things, they would sometimes recall this outing with the mingled thrills of regret and pleasure which memory so often yields.

      They sang other old-fashioned songs: “Swanee River,” “Aunt Dinah’s Quilting Party,” “Bring Back My Bonny to Me;” and then, alone, strumming the accompaniment on the guitar, Grant rendered that doleful pastoral of the plains, “The Cowboy’s Lament.”

      The mood for singing passed, and they were silent, even the Texan, having put aside his instrument, leaned his elbows on his knees and propped his chin with his hands to stare moodily into the sinking fire. As the unreplenished flames died down, the shadows crept nearer and the tent seemed to beckon to the embrace of its shelter.

      Finally Piper shook himself, sat up, stretched his arms above his head and yawned.

      “Me to the sleeping bag,” he said. “I’m going to turn in.”

      CHAPTER IV.

      A BAD NIGHT FOR PIPER

      “Why, СКАЧАТЬ