“To be sure,” says I, “to be sure.”
“It’s been a wonderful trip, hain’t it?” Mark asked. “Canoein’ way down the shore of Lake Michigan from Mackinac? When King Louis hears of what we’ve d-done he’ll be p-pretty tickled, I bet.”
“Let’s see,” says I; “you’re buried down Ludington way somewheres, ain’t you?”
“There’s about a dozen places claims my grave. Er”—he stopped and scowled at me—“I mean will claim it when I’m dead and buried.”
“How come they to name this river after you, Father Marquette?” I asked him.
“’Cause I d-discovered it,” says he.
There we were getting mixed up. We were pretending we were discovering the Mississippi, and right in the middle of it we forgot and talked about the Père Marquette. The Père part of it means “Father,” you know.
The big river was considerable wider than the Middle Branch—maybe seventy feet sometimes—and it was swifter and deeper. Right where we were was a sort of shallow, but even at the far side it was good and deep. It was a hard river to canoe on because it was so irregular about being deep. First the water would be over your head, and next it would be so shallow you’d be scraping on the bottom.
We paddled along until we came to a bend in the river where there was a sand-bar sticking out into the water on the point of the bend.
“There,” says Mark; “l-let’s git ashore for breakfast. No sign of h-hostile Indians.”