Four in Camp: A Story of Summer Adventures in the New Hampshire Woods

CHAPTER XVII
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 “It’s out of date!”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.

CHAPTER XVIII
TELLS HOW THEY FOUND A DERELICT AND A COURSE DINNER, AND MET WITH SHIPWRECK

When they awoke nature presented a far different aspect. A stiff, cold wind blew out of the northeast, the sky was hidden by dark clouds that hurried up the lake, and the water was of a leaden green hue and crested with whitecaps. They viewed the prospect gloomily while they tumbled into their clothes and lighted the morning fire. But a good breakfast put them in better spirits, and at half past eight they were in the canoes again battling with wind and waves. It was hard paddling, and to make it worse the spray drenched them before they had made a half mile of progress. Long before noon, in spite of many rests, they were ready to seek the shore. The wind increased with every hour and the heavy clouds drove faster and faster into the southwest. At half past ten they decided to land and so turned the bows of the canoes toward a fair-sized island that guarded the entrance to a bay. It was while making for this that Bob, who was in the leading canoe with Dan, pointed to an object which drifted along a quarter of a mile up the lake.

“Looks like a boat, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“It surely does,” Dan answered after studying it a moment. “But it seems to be empty. Let’s go and investigate.”

So they shouted to the others and paddled away in the direction of the derelict. When they drew near they saw that it was a cedar rowboat, apparently a yacht’s tender. At the stern was the word “Elf.” It was almost half full of water and a crimson sweater washed to and fro in the bottom. There were no oars in it and the rowlocks were not in place.

“If it wasn’t for the rowlocks being out,” said Dan, “I’d think there’d been an accident. But I guess no one ever went overboard and stopped to take the rowlocks out. What’ll we do with it?”

“Tow it over to the island,” answered Bob promptly. “That’s maybe where it belongs. It’s a derelict and we can claim salvage. She’s a fine little boat, isn’t she?”

When they worked the canoe up to the tender’s bow the mystery was explained. A few feet of rope, frayed at the end, told the story.

“She’s blown away from the landing,” said Dan. “That painter probably sawed itself in two during the night; probably rubbed against the edge of the wharf. We’ll claim the reward if we can find the owner.”

So they took the end of the rope aboard and tried to paddle away. They’d probably been there yet had not Nelson and Tom come up presently and lent assistance. A half-filled rowboat is no light tow in a heavy sea, and by the time they had beached it they were all well tired out. After turning the water out of it, and wringing the sweater until it was somewhat drier, they set out on a tour of discovery.

There were no habitations in sight from their landing-place, but a few minutes’ walk took them around a corner of the island and brought them in sight of a sumptuous camp building which, planned like a Swiss chalet, stood on a little bluff above the edge of the lake and towered up among the trees. Jutting into the water was a long pier with several craft of different kinds about it, while further out a sixty-foot steam yacht was moored.

“Bet you this is the place,” said Tom. “How much we going to ask for reward?”

“Nothing,” said Bob. Tom looked disappointed, but the others agreed that they wouldn’t take any money for the rescue of the tender. As they approached a ferocious-looking bull-terrier made a dash at them and barked savagely, only to change his behavior on closer acquaintance and leap about them joyfully. The noise brought one of the inmates of the house to the front door, and he waved greetings to the party and awaited their approach. He was a middle-aged man, rather fussily dressed – as Dan put it – for camp-life, and he held a newspaper in his hand and smoked a pipe. At the steps Bob became spokesman and explained their errand.

“A cedar tender named ‘Elf,’ eh?” asked the man. “That’s mine, sure enough. Found her afloat, eh? Well, I’m mightily obliged to you, gentlemen. Come in, come in! Get out of the way there, Pete. Oh, Jack! tell Barry to go around the island on the lake side and bring home the tender. The fool thing ran away last night and a party found her half full of water.”

“All right,” answered an unseen voice from the house, and the Four, following the host, found themselves in a great living-room at one end of which big logs blazed in a monstrous fireplace. The room was beautifully furnished; bright-hued rugs covered the floor, heads of deer, bears, and caribous adorned the walls, and a giant moose head glared down from the stone chimney above the high mantel. A flight of stairs led past the chimney to a gallery which ran around three sides of the building and from which the up-stairs rooms opened. Over the gallery railing hung hides and pelts of deer, bears, foxes, and other animals. The host led the way to the fire, before which two ladies and a second man were sitting. The latter proved to be “Jack,” and “Jack’s” last name proved to be Merrill. The boys gave their names, and were duly introduced. The host’s name was Carey; one of the ladies was Mrs. Carey, and the other was a Miss White. The inhabitants of the camp were dressed as though they were in a city house instead of a log building on the edge of the wilderness, and the boys regretted their own scanty attire. That is, three of them did; I can’t honestly say that Tom looked worried about the matter. But, for that, neither did their hosts. The boys were given places about the broad hearth, and the bull-terrier threw himself down at their feet and viewed them with a friendly grin. Bob, with occasional help from his companions, told about their trip, about Camp Chicora, and about the finding of the tender. The matter of reward was broached, but, upon their refusal to consider it, was not pressed.

“But you’ll have to take dinner with us,” said Mr. Carey, and the others indorsed him. The boys were nothing loath to change camp-fare for the luxuries promised by the appearance of the camp and its inmates, and Tom, who had possibly feared a refusal on the part of his companions, heaved a sigh of relief when they accepted the invitation. After that they spent the jolliest kind of an hour until dinner was announced. They were taken over the house and marveled at its conveniences and appointments; they were challenged to a game of pool by Miss White, accepted, and were one and all badly beaten; they were shown the contents of the gun-racks by Mr. Carey, and listened to his tales of moose and caribou hunting in the north with tingling veins; and finally they were conducted by a smart servant to a cozy up-stairs room to get ready for dinner.

“Wish I had a little more on,” said Bob ruefully, looking at his scant camp uniform in the big mirror. “I don’t feel decent.”

“I wouldn’t mind so much,” said Dan, “if I even had long trousers. My legs look awfully bare.”

“Bet we have a swell dinner,” was Tom’s contribution to the subject.

And Tom was quite right. The dinner came on in so many courses that he lost count of them, and was as perfect as though served in the heart of New York city. Afterward they went back to the big fireplace and watched the four-foot logs blazing and crackling, and talked lazily while the wind blustered against the windows. Tom almost fell asleep once, and Dan had to kick him hard before he was fully awake again. About two o’clock Bob suggested departure.

“Why don’t you stay overnight with us?” asked Mrs. Carey. “You really ought not to go out on the lake in canoes a day like this.”

“That’s so,” said her husband. “No sense in it at all. You stay right here until this storm blows over. If you like, in the morning I’ll take you up the lake on the yacht. I can get you up to Northwest Bay in no time.”

But Bob thanked them and declined. And Tom sighed dolefully. So a half-hour later they took their departure amid cordial invitations to come again. Mr. Carey walked around to their landing-place with them and was much interested in their canoes and outfit. And after they were afloat and paddling away he waved to them from the shore and laughingly cautioned them not to get drowned.

Tom was loud in his expressions of disfavor of their course.

“Don’t see why you fellows wouldn’t stay,” he grumbled. “Gee! you don’t know when you’re well off. Think of the supper and breakfast we’ve missed! And the dandy beds! And that peach of a fire! And – ”

“Mind your paddle,” said Bob. “You’re kicking up an awful mess with it. If you can’t do better than that you’d better take it out.”

And Tom, still protesting under his breath, set to work again.

Bob, who had fallen naturally into the position of chief navigator, had planned to keep down the southwest side of the lake to West Alton and camp near the village for the night. The next morning they would start early and cross to Wolfeborough, take the forenoon steamer back to The Weirs, and from there return to Camp Chicora by the afternoon train. But once past the shelter of the island they began to doubt their ability to make West Alton. The wind had swung around into the south, and to hold the canoes in an easterly direction was a difficult task. After laboring some time with little success Bob decided to run across the lake before the wind in the direction of Long Island and go into camp on one of the smaller islets thereabouts or, failing that, on the mainland. So they swung the canoes about and headed north-by-east and found a chance to rest their tired muscles. With the wind almost directly aft it was only necessary to paddle easily and keep the noses of the craft in the right direction. The canoe containing Bob and Tom, being somewhat less heavily weighted, rode higher out of water and consequently presented more surface to the wind. As a result, when they were half-way across the lake they were leading by almost an eighth of a mile. Nelson suggested catching up with them, but Dan objected.

“Let them go,” he said. “I’m tuckered out and I’m going to rest. That was a pretty hefty bit of paddling back there, Nel; we made about a foot to every ten strokes. I’m wet through with perspiration.”

“Well, I’m wet through, too,” answered Nelson, who was in the bow, “but not with perspiration. You’d better pull your sweater on or you’ll catch cold.”

“Guess I will,” said Dan. “This breeze is pretty chilly on a fellow’s back. Where is that sweater of mine? I see it. Hold steady and I’ll get it.”

Dan shipped his paddle, arose cautiously to his feet, and took a step toward the middle of the canoe. At that instant a tiny squall of wind struck them, he lost his balance, and the next thing Nelson knew he was struggling up through yards and yards of dark water. When his head was finally above the surface and he had shaken the water from his eyes he stared bewilderedly about him. Fifty feet away the overturned canoe was drifting heavily before the wind. About him here and there such of the luggage as had not sunk at once was bobbing about from wave to wave. Near by, Dan’s head with the red hair plastered to it was visible. Every moment the canoe was drifting farther away, and Nelson realized that their strait was already desperate and was growing more so with every instant of delay.

“Come on, Dan!” he shouted. “Make for the canoe; we’ll pick up the stuff afterward.”

He heard some sort of a response from the other and then struck out fiercely for the craft. If he could get on top of it it might be possible to attract the attention of Bob and Tom to their plight. It was a hard chase, and when his hand finally touched the wet surface of the canoe he was pretty well tuckered. Throwing one arm across the bottom he managed to get his head some two feet above the water and could catch glimpses now and then above the waves of the other craft well to the right and apparently a long distance away. Then he turned to shout to Dan, turned and saw only the empty water. He dashed the drops from his eyes with his free hand and looked again, searching the hollows between the racing waves. Once he thought he saw for an instant Dan’s head above the surface, but it was gone again instantly.

“Dan!” he shouted in terror. “Dan!”

There was no sound but the ceaseless splashing of the waves. With an awful fear clutching at his heart he threw himself away from the canoe and plunged back in the teeth of the gale.