“Well, here’s the place where we start from,” began Ruth, pointing to a circle at the top of the map; “it’s down near the boathouse on the Silver Creek—you know, don’t you, where Michael keeps the boats?”
Harold nodded vaguely; he was not very familiar with this section of the country.
“Then you see the stream gets narrower, and we go along to this cross—Miss Phillips thinks we’ll camp there our first night.
“And see, here’s where we make a portage—and here, and here, and here”—she pointed quickly from one cross to another—“is where we camp again.”
“Do you make any stops?” asked the boy, still keeping his eyes fixed on the map.
“Yes; this circle is Besley, where we expect to load up on more supplies if necessary.”
“And how long do you expect to be gone?”
“We reach Silvertown Saturday night a week, and then we’ll spend a week there and come home by train.”
“Silvertown!” he repeated in wonder. “And you mean to say you end up at Silvertown! Holy smokes! You’re the sports!”
“I’ll say we are!” agreed Ruth. “But listen, Harold—” her tone became serious now—“we’re going to have canoe races, and all sorts of things there, and—and——”