“We’ll meet at the dock, right after dinner,” proposed Frank, “row up the river a way and then strike in through the woods. Right at the foot of Bender’s Hill ought to be a good place. The woods are thick and shady there.”
The others agreed to this and separated, to gather again about one o’clock.
“Stumpy, you and Bart row,” suggested Ned. “You need the exercise to keep you from getting fat, and Bart wants to keep in training for football next term.”
“Well, I like your nerve, Ned Wilding!” exclaimed Fenn.
“Same here!” came from Bart.
“I thought you would,” observed Ned coolly, as he went to the stern, prepared to steer.
“He and I will row back,” suggested Frank.
“That’s right,—take the easiest part—come down with the current,” growled Stumpy, but he took his place at the oars. Perhaps he thought he was getting too stout.
Bart grumbled some, but in a good-natured way, and ended by taking his place just ahead of Fenn, while Frank went to the bow, and soon they were underway.
They tied their boat in a secluded place about a mile above the Riffles and then struck off through the woods. It was two miles to Bender’s Hill, a small mountain named after the man on whose property it was located, and it was the highest point in the vicinity. All about it, as well as on the sides and top of the hill, were dense woods, not often visited.