Within an hour a high bluff came into view a mile down the stream, and the lads, who were getting both hungry and tired, expected to find a good camp-site. In this hope they were disappointed. The current surged along past the tree-trunks where rafts of driftwood and rubbish had collected, while masses of dirty white foam were held by the dead wood and rubbish. The place did not look in the least inviting, and the boys looked in vain for a clear bubbling spring.
“Where are the springs, Mr. Barker?” Tim asked timidly.
“Well, my boy,” the old man replied, “I reckon they are covered by the flood.”
“What shall we do for a camping-place?” Bill asked.
“Go on until we find one that suits us.”
“But if we don’t find one?”
“Then we camp at a place that does not suit us,” the trapper replied dryly. “Traveling down-river isn’t like living in town. We’ll just take things as they come.”
About five o’clock they came to a place where a small creek came in from the west.
“Bill, you had better steer into this bay,” the trapper suggested. “We’ll camp there for the night.”
“It isn’t a good place, Mr. Barker,” Tim ventured to say. “Look at all the dirty driftwood and the willow-bushes. We are getting into a swamp where there can’t be any springs.”