The conversation suddenly ceased, for Jock had felt the welcome tug at his line, and all his attention was required to land his fish. When it was thrown into the boat it proved to be a pike of fair size; but George was keenly disappointed, as it was evident now that he longed for larger game, both to satisfy his own desires and to show the envious Hank that he owned no monopoly of the fish of the St. Lawrence.
The rivalry between the boatmen was a new and novel feature of the sport, and Jock and Bob soon found themselves sympathizing with their own boatman. They were almost as eager as he to add to their catch, and every strike was hailed with a fresh delight.
The sun was now high in the heavens, and, sheltered as the boats were from every breeze, the boys were soon sweltering in the heat. To add to their discomfort the fish almost ceased to bite, and when another hour had passed and not a further prize had been secured by either party, George rowed his skiff in toward the other boat and hailed his rival.
“Hank, isn’t it about quitting-time?” “Yes,” responded Hank, as tersely as George had spoken.
“Where shall we have our dinner? Isn’t Barnhart’s about as good a place as any?” “Barnhart’s all right,” responded the other boatman. “You go over and start a fire, and we’ll join you in a few minutes.” “Keep your lines out, boys,” said George to his companions. “You probably won’t get anything, but you might as well be ready if a muscallonge does come along and takes a fancy to your bait.”
With lusty strokes he turned the skiff about, and once more rowed out into the swift current. Then down the stream they darted, but the novelty was mostly gone now, and besides, both boys were ready for the dinner to which George had referred.
After the skiff had gone with the current for a half mile or more, its course was changed and, passing through the stiller waters, was sent ashore at a beautiful place on Barnhart’s Island.
As the boys leaped out they perceived that the spot selected by their boatman was in the midst of a grove of maple trees, a “sugar bush,” George called it, and the cool shade was so inviting that both threw themselves upon the grass, glad of the opportunity to stretch themselves once more.
“If you boys want to help you might be getting some wood together,” suggested George. “If you’re hungry it will hurry up things a bit.”
Both boys quickly responded to the invitation, and soon had a considerable pile of broken branches and driftwood collected in the spot indicated by their boatman.