“What do they catch?” inquired Bob.
“Fish.”
“Oh!” And Bob lapsed into silence once more.
Indeed, it was becoming more and more difficult to deal with Ethan; and his estimate of their knowledge, or rather their lack of it, was so apparent that they began to feel as if they were the embodiment of the city greenhorns he had so contemptuously referred to when they had first entered camp.
For a time there was silence on board, and the boys all gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour. In the distance were the shores, and in various places the farmers could be seen at their work. The farmhouses, low and quaint, appeared here and there, and the cottages, though less numerous than among the Thousand Islands, were still much in evidence. Perched on some high bluff along the shore, or built in groups in some grove, they continually presented a spectacle of life far different from that which was to be seen in the towns or cities.
To Ethan their coming was the most natural thing in the world, for where could another such region be found as that along the borders of the majestic St. Lawrence? The only thing against which he rebelled was the price paid for the spot on which some cottage had been erected, and as they passed the summer homes he frequently referred to the amount of money which had been paid for the lots.
“That’s where Tod Church lives,” he explained, pointing as he spoke to a low farmhouse on the shore, near which stood several modest cottages.
“Is that so?” replied Bob seriously, as if the abode of Tod was a matter of intense interest to him. “Was he in the War of 1812 too?”
“No; he wasn’t. Tod’s a young man. He’s only fifty-nine, jest three months younger’n I be. But Tod’s got rich!”