EN ROUTE FOR THE CASTLE.
Tom and Tige drew one of the sleds, and Balser and Prince drew the other. During the first part of the trip, Jim would now and then lend a helping hand, but toward the latter end of the journey he said he thought it would be better for him to ride upon one of the sleds to keep the load from falling off. Balser and Tom, however, did not agree with him, nor did the dogs; so Jim walked behind and grumbled, and had his grumbling for his pains, as usually is the case with grumblers.
Two or three hours before sunset the boys reached Brandywine, a babbling little creek in springtime, winding its crooked rippling way through overhanging boughs of water elm, sycamore, and willows, but, at the time of our heroes’ expedition, frozen over with the mail of winter. It is in small creeks, such as Brandywine, that beavers love to make their dams.
Our little caravan, upon reaching Brandywine, at once took to the ice and started up-stream along its winding course.
Jim had grown tired. “I don’t believe you fellows know where you’re going,” said he. “I don’t see any place to camp.”
“You’ll see it pretty quickly,” said Balser; and when they turned a bend in the creek they beheld a huge sycamore springing from a little valley that led down to the water’s edge.
“There’s our home,” said Balser.
The sycamore was hollow, and at its roots was an opening for a doorway.