“Of course there are times when the folks are shut off from the shore. When there are thaws or freshets, or when the ice is forming, they have to stay on the islands. But that isn’t for a very long time, and it isn’t so hard as you might think. Everybody around here loves this river, and it’s no hardship to have to stay near by. There was a man from New York up here last summer, and I used to take him fishing almost every day. He was a fine man, too, and when he got ready to go back home he made me a good offer to go back with him, and said he’d give me a good place. But bless you! I couldn’t think of leaving the St. Lawrence. If I didn’t see the heaving waters first thing in the morning I’d be as lonesome as a hen with one chicken. I’ve lived hereabouts all the twenty-six years of my life, and I’m too old now to learn new tricks.”
“What’s that place ahead, George?” inquired Bob, pointing to a town on the Canadian side of the river some two or three miles in advance of them.
“Cornwall. It’s quite a sizable town, too.”
“Don’t you think we’d better go ashore?” said Jock. “We must have a good ten-mile ride, and it’ll be night before long.”
“Not just yet,” pleaded the boatman. “We haven’t got that muscallonge.”
“And aren’t likely to get it, I’m afraid,” replied Jock. “Where are the teams to meet us, George?”
“Right down here. We’ve time enough yet,” persisted George, as he turned the skiff into another bay. “Try it here, boys. We may get a muscallonge before you know it, and then Hank McBride will have to keep still.”
The boys made no protest, though the sun was already low in the western sky. In a few minutes their desire to return was forgotten, for the fish were striking again, and several pike and pickerel were safely landed.
“I think, George, we’d better go back now,” said Jock, as the boatman turned to resume his course up the bay. “It’s getting late.”