“How long will you be gone?” inquired Hal.
“Oh, jest for a spell,” replied Joe.
“Don’t you forget us,” said Ned.
“Do you think they will?” asked Hal, growing nervous as he watched the two fishermen row away.
“Of course not!” assured Ned. “Say—I tell you what we’ll do. Let’s climb the bluffs, and while we’re exploring we can see Sam and Joe when they’re coming back.”
The river side of the bluffs had been cut away by running water until in many places the bare limestone was exposed, to form perpendicular cliffs. Between these cliffs were little gullies, thickly matted with the wild strawberry, the wild morning glory, the violet, and a thousand other woodland plants, all growing independent of man. Graceful and stately, against the gray walls rose and drooped the rock honeysuckle.
Eager to reach the crest, the boys scaled from foothold to foothold, and hot and breathless, speedily emerged upon the top. Here they stood and looked down upon the bird’s-eye view of land and water.
At their feet was the beach, much reduced in size, where they had witnessed the “water-haul.” North and south stretched the river, a broad ribbon of blue emblazoned with silver, and rent here and there by islands. Beyond, directly opposite them, was the mouth of the Monga, just above which, they knew, was the shanty and the brindled dog, and still farther above, the grape arbor and Bob.
On the hither side of the river Sam and Joe were plainly visible, making their way, in their skiff, along the shore line, where the shallows reduced the force of the current.