The thirteenth of June found everything running smoothly at the camp and the boys having the time of their lives. The crews were well organized and taking good care of the work assigned to them. Of course there had been many cases of neglect and carelessness but they had been overcome in one way or another and the boys felt quite proud of their management. The cows were milked regularly, the woodpile replenished to the satisfaction of the cook, the camp kept in good order and the class work zealously performed.
All of these things were of importance, for on them depended the annual trip to the White Earth Indian Reservation. The former classes had all gone and no one wanted to see the custom broken. The president of the corporation had made formal application to Professor Roberts for three days’ absence for the whole class and preparations for the trip were busily under way. Pack sacks were being stuffed with all the necessary provisions and bedding, and through it all a running discussion of the plans for the celebration made the whole camp vibrate with heated argument. Lacking other forms of amusement an argument was always welcome. Many a time an argument on predestination, or some other equally abstract question, developed oratory which could be heard half a mile away.
The object of the trip in question was the annual celebration of the Peace Festival on the White Earth Indian Reservation, commemorating the treaty of peace between the Sioux and the Chippewa tribes. Years ago the forests of northern Wisconsin and Minnesota had been the hunting grounds of the Sioux till the Chippewas, driven westward by the warlike Five Nations (who had in turn been driven out by the Whites) forced them out into the open prairies. For years the Sioux, returning to the forests to avoid the severity of the winter on the plains, had clashed savagely with the Chippewas. Finally a treaty of peace had been made and every year they celebrated that peace at White Earth with horse races, canoe races, war dances and other festivities.
“Have you fellows decided yet how you are going?” Merton asked, stopping in the door of the lecture hall, where a half-dozen fellows were fussing over their preparations.
A confused babel immediately broke forth. “No,” Bill announced complacently, “nobody has decided anything but me; I’m going to stay home to take care of the ‘caows.’”
“Well,” Merton continued, “I’m going to start right after lunch, and I’ll be glad of all the company I can get. The rest of you may decide what you please.”
“When do you expect to get there?” Bill asked.
“Tomorrow noon,” Merton answered confidently.
“Yes, you will,” Bill answered contemptuously. “It’s fifty good country miles.”
“Yes,” Merton said, “fifty-five of them. I’m good for it.”