“I’ve thought of it,” returned Harry. He turned to the old tar. “Jack, could we take the Whistler down through Poplar River to Long Lake?”
“I reckon we could,” was the slow answer, as Jack Broxton rolled his quid from one cheek to the other. “The water is running putty high now.”
“It would be a fine trip in itself,” went on Jerry. “I’ve never sailed down the Poplar beyond Carlville.”
“Nor I,” returned Harry. “But never mind that just now. Here we are at the landing.”
“An’ heah am my father’s house,” said Blumpo.
The former hermit, now, however, a hermit no longer, came out to greet his son. In the meantime all hands lowered sail and tied up.
It was a beautiful day, and the young oarsman and Harry had come over to the island to see what they could shoot. They left Jack in charge of the yacht and Blumpo with his father, and started off with guns and game bags for the interior.
“There can’t be much game at this season of the year,” said Harry. “But we may have a little sport, and tramping in the woods does a fellow lots of good.”
“Indeed I know that,” was the quick response. “Hullo, here’s a nasty bit of bog to cross.”
“We’ll go around by yonder big tree.”