But Paul had not yet learned his lesson.
Dan stowed sufficient provisions in a light punt to meet the needs of a few days’ camping excursion, a light axe, a small sheet-iron tent stove—for Dan was uncertain of finding sufficient wood for an open camp-fire to keep them comfortable during the cold evenings evenings—a small tent, a tarpaulin, cooking utensils and two sleeping bags. Each carried his rifle—Dan’s a light 44-40 carbine—and Paul did not forget his favorite steel fly rod.
“Two o’clock Thursday. No later! No later than two, now!” Captain Bluntt admonished as they drew away from the ship.
The mile to the mouth of Egg River was a short pull for Dan, and he found that with a little maneuvering he was able to work the boat a considerable distance up the river itself, to the first clump of straggling spruce trees.
Here it was decided to make camp, and while Dan pitched the tent and put things in order Paul wandered up the stream and soon had a fine trout on his hook.
Fishing was good, many delightful tramps were taken over the rolling hills, and only too quickly Thursday rolled around.
“What’s the hour?” inquired Dan as they finished their dinner.
Paul looked at his watch.
“Half past twelve.”
“We’ll have to be gettin’ back t’ th’ ship.”