CHAPTER XV
THE TRAP ON FLINT ISLAND
Sagamore Carrigan and his trailers were greeted in hearty fashion by the campers of Kittahannock Lodge, and the director, who each year was glad to extend his hospitality to the Lenape Long Trailers, offered an empty tent-house to the canoe party. He also invited them to supper at the lodge, but when Mr. Carrigan explained that they had provisions with them, assigned them a grassy spot above the river. Here, after they had washed up in the camp bath-house, the trailers were drawn about the fire by the aroma of Cowboy Platt’s cookery, and attacked with no little gusto the meal he handed out.
As soon as each man had washed his plate and fork, the trailers joined in the campfire merriment of the Kittahannock tribe within the lodge of hewn timber, on the walls of which were hung many examples of their woodcraft skill and collections of natural objects. The band was a lively and merry crowd, and the Lenape lads joined in the fun in friendly spirit. Games and stunts passed the time until the call to quarters sounded, and the eight hikers sought their cabin sleepily with many thoughts of their exciting first day on the trail.
Sagamore Carrigan yawned as he pulled his blankets over him and switched off his flash-lantern. “Not many stars out,” he remarked; “and I didn’t like the way the campfire smoke hung low in the chimney tonight. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we had a wet cruise tomorrow, fellows.”
Dirk woke in the night to hear a splatter of drops on the roof of the tent-house; and he fell asleep again thinking drowsily that the leader’s words had come true. The next morning dawned mistily over a wet world, and a swirling fog hung low over the river, shrouding the farther shore. The gloomy weather, though, penetrated no deeper than the ponchos of the Lenape boys, who after a warming breakfast, were afloat at an early hour. In a mysterious silence they pushed off into the overhung waters to continue their cruise up-stream, keeping close together so that no canoe should be separated from the others in the fog.
After an hour’s stiff paddling against the stubborn current, they saw the sun shine through once or twice, and the fog cleared away. But it was plain to be seen that the rain would continue steadily throughout the day. Through the downpour, Dirk caught sight of the river banks, now much closer together than they had been at Skinner’s Ferry. Shallow rapids became much more frequent, and Brick in the stern had to exercise unusual care to see that the Sachem’s bottom was not ripped on some jagged rock.
Dirk, paddling doggedly with his arms thrust through the slits in his rubber poncho, felt the muscles of his shoulders stiffening with the unwonted labor; and he was happy when, in the middle of the morning, the little fleet came into sight of the white houses of the small river town of Port Jermyn. They tied up at the wharf where the main street of the town ended, and strolled about through the rain-swept village while the councilor, assisted by Steve Link, purchased the supplies that would be their sole provisions until their return from the wilds into which they were about to plunge.
The stop at Port Jermyn, short as it was, refreshed the paddlers, and Dirk found that he had gained his second wind. He still retained his place in the bow, however, for he did not feel that he owned the skill necessary to guide the Sachem through the ever-increasing shallows of the river above the town. Feeling that he had left civilization behind for some time to come, he worked with a will, chewing a piece of butterscotch and waiting patiently for the signal that would mean a halt for the midday meal.
Shortly after noon, Mr. Carrigan beckoned to the following canoeists to turn off the main stream into the mouth of a wide creek flowing from the west. A few hundred yards from the outlet, they turned their craft toward the bank, and climbed out stiffly to stretch and gather dry wood for a smoky fire built beneath the shielding branches of a large oak. The canoes were turned on their sides, ponchos were taken off and stretched on sticks above the openings, and within these snug shelters the trailers lounged on their backs and lazily devoured heaping plates of beans and bread and slightly damp cookies.
“We-all are goin’ to fix some spaghetti for supper, in your honor, Wop!” Cowboy Platt twitted Megaro. “How will you like that?”