“We’ll never even pitch camp before dark if you yearlings don’t stop argufyin’ and get started,” drawled Cowboy. “I want lots of wood cut for the fire, and somebody mentioned he was goin’ to hook some fish.”
“Well, we’ll move along, then, and do our resting when we get to camp,” said Mr. Carrigan. “It’s the old earth that will be your bed tonight, if I don’t cut some spruce tips for mattresses—so let’s be on our way!”
The Red Fox and the Whiffenpoof pushed out on the lake for the last lap of the day’s long journey.
“Well,” asked Brick Ryan, paddle in hand, “aren’t you goin’ to stir, my son?”
“I suppose so.” Dirk rose stiffly, and stretched. “Gollies, I hate to move, though. I could go to sleep right now.”
“Not here, my bucko.” The red-headed boy playfully prodded his canoe-mate in the ribs. “Stir your stumps. Look, the other guys are almost out of sight around Flint Island. Old Wise-Tongue is wavin’ for us to come on.”
The two foremost canoes vanished behind the bulk of the little island as the Sachem pushed out.
“Steer over along the shore of the island, will you?” asked Dirk, after a moment. “I thought I saw something moving in the bushes. It looked like——See it? Why, it’s a man! And he’s waving to us! What do you suppose he wants?”
He quickened his stroke, and they pulled toward the rocky edge where the waterline of the lake marked the island. A low, hoarse cry rose from the twilight of the thickets.
“Ay! Help me, you come help! I caught!”