“I thought of it, but I didn’t know what luck you were having, and I knew we’d want some fish for dinner, so I let him stay.”
“If they’re beginnin’ to run, mebbe we’ll strike one some day that’s o’ decent size. Jock, if ye ever get a muscalonge what weighs forty pound on the end o’ yer line, ye’ll find out that catchin’ pickerel’s boys’ play alongside o’ it.”
“Do you really think we’ll get one?” said Jock, eagerly.
“Can’t tell. Like enough ye will, an’ jest as likely ye won’t. Out with ye now, the whole kit and posse o’ ye,” he added, and the boys turned toward the grove of maples which grew near the shore.
“This is what I call great fun!” exclaimed Ben, as he threw his long body on the grass. “I think I could almost make up poetry if I was to stay here long enough.”
“Your face looks as if it was burning with poetic fire,” drawled Bob.
“It can’t look worse than yours,” replied Ben, as he placed his hands on his cheeks.
Indeed, all four of the boys presented a similar appearance, for the effect of the rays of the sun reflected from the water had made all their faces of a decidedly brilliant hue. Jock tried to comfort them by explaining that that was what was to be expected, and that more marked results than these were likely to be attained before their stay in camp was over. But for the present the boys were content as they lay beneath the grateful shade of the spreading maples. In the distance was the glorious St. Lawrence, and an occasional whistle indicated that yachts were speeding over its course, or that the river boats were passing. Other skiffs had now entered Goose Bay, and as they moved slowly over the shoals or anchored near the “weeds,” it became evident that its waters were well known before the coming of our boys.
It was now noon time, and the leaves upon the trees were hardly moved by a breeze; out on the bay the sun was beating, and the quivering motions of the air under the influence of the summer heat could be distinctly seen. In the distance the calls of the crows could be heard, but otherwise the quiet of the day was unbroken. On every side was the solitude, and as one of the boys expressed it, ‘they could almost hear the silence.’
Yet the impression produced by it all was as strong as it was novel. The struggle for existence, the life of the city, the rumble and indefinable roar of the town, were all forgotten for the time. Here, at least, was peace, and the reluctance of Ethan to leave his home by the great river, or depart from the comradeship of the St. Lawrence, could be readily understood. All four of the boys felt the influence of the scene, and after a few minutes the laughter and conversation ceased, and the young fishermen were as silent as the silent trees above them.