Sam grunted; giving the fish-box in front of him a kick into deeper water, he plashed to shore, and stumped up the slope to the cabin. Joe followed.
“Come in,” he invited, over his shoulder.
The boys entered. Sam was lighting a lamp in a bracket against the wall. The cabin was small and close, with its two bunks, its stove for cooking, and its walls hung with clothing and cooking and fishing utensils and decorated with prints. The room was bedchamber, kitchen and parlor, in one.
“We can’t stay, thank you,” spoke Ned, fancying that the two fishermen would want to attend to their own affairs. “Only, we caught a lot of frogs for bait, and haven’t anything to keep them in. Have you got an old bucket, or some tin cans, we can have?”
“Lot’s of ’em,” responded Joe. “Paw over that heap back of the shanty, and take what you want.”
“Better have the lantern,” advised Sam—speaking for the first time.
With the brindled dog continuing to eye them as if suspecting that they were stealing, Hal and Ned looked over the pile of refuse, and came upon an old tin pail which suited their purpose.
Having achieved this, and said good-night, they went back to camp, through the darkness; and they tripped so often, and stepped on so many rolling sticks, and stones, that they wished they had their own lantern along.
Upon hearing them approaching, the faithful Bob was in arms at once, resolved to save the camp, or die; but upon being reassured by Ned’s whistle and call, he advanced and greeted them with his usual wordiness, while he sniffed for traces of his down creek enemy.