Frank and Ned began pulling with long steady strokes. The boat with its load was not easy to propel through the water and they knew they could do better by taking it easy than by wasting their strength in useless hurry.
Up the stream they went, past Darewell, under the bridge spanning the stream just above the dock, and so on beyond the outskirts of the town until they were out into the country district surrounding the place. It was a pleasant sunshiny day, just warm enough to be comfortable, and with a little breeze blowing.
“I wish this could go on forever,” spoke Fenn, from where he was resting comfortably on the folded tent in the bow of the craft.
“Wait until it comes your turn to row,” said Ned.
They reached Riverton, the next town above Darewell about eleven o’clock and hired the canoe, a large green one, but very light to paddle.
“Shall we get dinner here?” asked Bart.
“If we’re going to camp let’s camp from the start,” suggested Fenn. “What’s the fun of going to a restaurant for your meals? Anyone can do that, but it isn’t everyone who can have theirs in the woods as we can. Let’s go up a few miles more and get dinner on shore.”
The others decided this would be the most fun, and the trip was resumed with Bart and Fenn at the oars. They made three miles before twelve o’clock and then, finding a shady, level spot near shore, tied the boat, and got out the portable stove.
“Now, Stumpy,” said Bart, who had been elected camp manager, “you get the wood. Ned, you dig some worms and catch fish, and Frank and I will get the meal ready.”