They lighted their lantern, and taking the liver, the frogs and the remains of the dogfish, tumbled into the scull-boat and pushed out. Behind them, upon shore, stayed Bob, the disconsolate, who was growing tired of always being “left.” He was positive that he was missing much fun.
The Deep Creek of night was decidedly different from the Deep Creek of day, just as the most open woods, in the light, are transformed into regular labyrinths, in the dark.
It was Ned’s turn to scull. It seemed to both boys that they never would reach the raft, so fast they appeared to glide, and yet so slow they were in arriving. And all was so eerie—black slough, black woods, black sky, and queer noises.
“There’s the raft, right ahead!” exclaimed Hal.
Whereupon they bumped into it.
The water, which was so playful as under the rays of the sun it lapped the mossy old logs, now was sullen and chill. Hal swung the lantern over, and speedily found the end of the trot-line.
They were forced to run the lines by feeling rather than by sight, for at best the beams of the lantern were shifty and uncertain. Either they had come again too soon, or the fish had gone to sleep, or were gorged with liver, for two medium-size catfish, one from each line, was the total yield.
The boys were a little disappointed. Out of the assortment of dainties at hand having baited afresh the empty hooks, they sculled back to camp, and Bob.
With most of their clothing on, and their coats for pillows, they rolled in their blankets, in the arbor, (Bob contentedly between them), and not even the over-sociable mosquitoes could hold them awake for more than five minutes and a quarter.