“Go on! go on!” said Ben, eagerly. “After the British had stuffed the gaping wounds with seaweed, and our brave and determined lads, with a fresh supply of spitballs and slingshots—go on! go on!”
“The next morning the redcoats wanted to call it quits, or rather they sent a flag and a demand for our men to surrender ‘to save the effusion of blood.’ The proud foe was sternly repulsed, and the firing was resumed. It seems all they had expected was to gain time. Trees had been felled across the creek,—Cranberry Creek they called it, I believe,—but the foe managed to get away. They were said to have lost a good many men.”
“Did our side lose any?” inquired Bob.
“Three. But reinforcements soon came, and after the boats had been patched up they started up the river again, bound for Sackett’s Harbor. Off Tibbet’s Point they fell in with the Earl of Moira, which chased them, and finally to get away they had to sink the gunboat they had taken and the most of the bateaux, so that the expedition came out about even.”
“Bob,” demanded Bert, once more sitting erect, “the next time hadn’t you just as soon tell us a true story?”
“That’s true. I read it in the old histories.”
“Do you know any more as ‘true’ as that?”
“Yes. I’ve been reading up on the St. Lawrence. I wanted to know something about the region before I came down here. I don’t believe you know anything about Cartier, or Frontenac, or any of the early discoverers.”
“Carter? Who’s Carter?” demanded Ben.
“I didn’t say Carter. I said Cartier. He’s the discoverer of the St. Lawrence.”