“Agreed,” said John. “The sky has been cloudy all the afternoon, and it looks more like rain than ever now. I shan’t feel easy till we get a roof over our heads.”
They tumbled their bundles over the fence and made their driver happy with a half-dollar, with which he drove whistling away. He, however, informed them that “he guessed likely he’d get up to see ’em in a few days, if they didn’t get sick of camping before that and clear out.”
AT THE PASTURE GATE
The campers dragged their bundles over to a low beech-tree a few rods distant, and beneath its spreading branches proceeded to erect their tent. Poles and pegs they cut in a thicket near by. Their chief trouble was the lack of a spade to make holes for the end poles in the hard earth. But they made the hatchet do the work, though the fine edge they had taken pains to put on it before leaving Boston disappeared in the process.
After the tent was up they got their things into it and spread their bedding. The next thing was to hunt up a spring to serve as a water-supply.
“You get out a lunch,” said John. “and I’ll fill this tin pail with water.”
THE SHEEP PASTURE
That was easier said than done. He stumbled about in the dusk over the rough pasture-land with its tangle of ferns and hardhack bushes, and the best he could do was to get a couple of pints of fairly clean water from a rocky mud-hole. Afterward he scooped the hollow deeper with his hands, hoping it would soon fill with clear water.