CHAPTER XI
HAWAIIAN PINEAPPLE
THE girls had all gone off blackberrying. The report of a spot where they grew “as big as your thumb” inspired an ambition to fill the buckets, to can, to make pies, puddings, flummery, or anything else suggested. So silence reigned in the little camp. The canal boats passed up or down once in a while, the tramp of the mules and the cries of the drivers announcing their coming. The Virginia shores showed misty green under the July skies; the river shone silver bright, or displayed dancing flecks where it dashed over the rocky portions. Just above the rapids it took a twist and was navigable for small boats quite a distance, running either side of two small islands.
From the nearer of these islands a column of smoke curled slowly up, and any one watching would see a canoe presently dart from the shore and come speeding down the river, turning off into a little creek which emptied itself into the stream just above the lock. Somewhat later two boys came down the road and stopped before the lodge, looking it up and down, then they mounted the steps to the rustic porch and knocked at the door. No answer to the knock. Then they called: “Heigho, girls!” No sound except the splashing of an approaching canal boat as it slipped through the water.
“They can’t all be asleep,” decided one of the boys at last.
“Gone on a hike, probably,” said the other. “Shall we wait?”
“We might take it easy for a few minutes. I say, Hal, this is a dandy place.”
“No better than our island. Give me old Longshanks every time. Of course this has more conveniences and is all right for girls, but the island for mine.”
“View’s better,” protested his companion, Chesney Lacey; “it must be something magnificent from the top of those cliffs.”
“Let’s go up and see. We can leave a message for the girls. If they are off on a hike they may not get back the whole afternoon.”
“Very true. Here goes, then. Got a bit of paper?”