“It won’t hurt them any. When they get enough they can come home.”
“It won’t hurt them any,” was a favorite remark of Mr. Miller’s. He had great faith in the happy-go-lucky ways of the average healthy boy, and his theory rarely was at fault.
But Mrs. Miller, not yet at ease, continued to hover around Ned, and ask him other anxious questions which seemed to him very foolish, but which to her seemed quite natural.
“Neddie, I really don’t believe you’re going to have plenty to eat!” she asserted.
“With two trot-lines? My, yes!” assured Ned. “Why, we can live on just fish!”
His words had such a ring of confidence that his mother—although “trot-lines” was a complete mystery to her—accepted them, and tried not to worry.
At half-past six the next morning Ned and Hal and Bob were at the warehouse, waiting for the steamer Harriett. The Harriett was a daily packet between Beaufort and Rapids City, forty miles below, and not only stopped at the towns between, but also would take on and put off passengers at points, wherever requested, along the shores.
At seven the Harriett came down from North Beaufort, where she was tied up at night, and thrust her nose upon the levee beside the warehouse. The two boys and Bob gladly scampered aboard, over the gangplank; the roustabouts carried on the two boxes containing the camp stuff, and while its owners nervously watched, hauled the scull-boat from the water, and stowed it, too, below deck. All the other freight having been cleaned up, the Harriett whistled for the bridge to open, and at the same time backed out.
At last the boys were off.