“So that is Lake Itasca,” Merton observed rather thoughtfully, as they followed the road along the hills on the east shore, “the source of the Father of Waters. I remember seeing pictures of it in my geography.”
“Sure thing,” Bill Price answered quickly. “So do I. I recognized it as soon as I saw it.”
“Well, this is something like a forest,” said Scott, admiring the dense stand of pines stretching down the hill to the water’s edge. “I began to think down there below Arago that the whole country was just covered with brush.”
“I wonder where the stage is?” Merton mused looking back over his shoulder, and they quickened their pace perceptibly.
“No matter now,” Scott answered. “We could outrun him from here if we had to.”
“Be easier to pay him to stay behind us,” Bill suggested.
In this way the last three miles passed rapidly and a sudden turn in the road brought them in sight of the camp not more than two hundred yards away. They had heard so much of it from the seniors and seen so many pictures of it taken at all possible angles that they recognized it at once.
“There’s the cookshack up on the hill,” Merton shouted, “and there’s smoke coming out of the chimney, too. That looks good to me. I could eat a porcupine right now, quills and all.”
“There’s the library straight ahead,” said Scott. “I wonder where the other buildings are?”
“There’s the barn,” Bill called, “and here’s the foreman’s house right beside us. Gee, doesn’t that lake look fine from here? I wish it was warm enough for a swim.”