"Yes, we may as well get out the firearms," said Dick. "The sight of the pistols may have a good effect. Perhaps the rascals will give up without fighting."
The pistols were gotten out, and all of the youths saw to it that they were in perfect condition for immediate use. As he looked at the weapons Harold Bird shuddered.
"I suppose you hate the sight of them,—after what happened to your father," said Dick, in a low tone.
"I do. I sincerely trust there is no bloodshed," answered the young
Southerner.
It was nightfall by the time the launch was clear of the bayou. In front of them lay the calm waters of Lake Sico—a shallow expanse, with mud flats at one side and a wilderness of trees, bushes, and wild canebrake at the other. They shut off the power and listened. Not a sound broke the stillness.
"Talk about solitude," was Tom's comment. "Here is where you can chop it out with an ax!"
"It's enough to make one shiver," added Fred.
Just then the dog Harold Bird had brought along set up a mournful howl.
"Even the dog doesn't like it," said Songbird. "Let us go on—I'd rather hear the puff-puff of the gasoline motor than listen to such stillness."
"I thought a poet craved solitude," said Dick. "This ought to fill you with inspiration."