“Looks like it, Ed.”
“Some pitiful cuss hez got lost, mebbe,” reasoned Ed, and sunk his oars deep, lifting the frail craft with every stroke as they made for the flickering fire.
“Halloo thar!” shouted Ed, but neither the loon’s laugh nor Ed’s halloo awakened Hi Dubois. He lay on his back, one freckled hand thrown across his open mouth. Ed shook him into consciousness as Joe caught sight of the telegram. He tore it open anxiously. He could scarcely believe the news. His breath came quick, and his eyes gleamed as he read it again under the lantern.
Sue and the Jacksons arrive Wednesday eighteenth. Have camp and guides ready Upper Ausable.
Enoch Crane.
That night Joe scarcely slept a wink. He was too happy to sleep. Sleep! And you ask a young man to sleep under the stimulant of as much sheer, unexpected happiness as that telegram contained? He got up a dozen times and paced around the fire. Joy had made him too nervous to lie down. Finally he abandoned the fire and, slipping on his moccasins, went down to the edge of the pond, where he sat on a log, his eyes wide open, dreaming. The first vestige of dawn, that peculiar gray light which is neither night nor day, and which first favors the open places, crept over the pond, awakening the loon, who laughed at him and instantly dived. Joe still sat there—trying to realize it all—to reason out how it had happened. He had thought the old pond enough of a paradise until now. It was nothing compared with what it would be.
Sue was coming!
He had never met the Jacksons, though Sue had casually mentioned them. Were they old or young? How many Jacksons were there? The whole thing seemed incredible. Why had Enoch Crane sent the telegram? Only Atwater knew where he was.
These thoughts and conjectures passed in a flood through his mind. A kingfisher, making his earliest morning round of the shore, chattered by him. He heard Ed yawn, and knew he was awake. Ed was talking now to the Dubois boy. Presently he heard the sound of his axe, lopping down some fresh firewood. It brought him to his feet and out of his revery, waking him up to his responsibility and the practical side of the situation. Joe knew there was no camp among the four or five lean-tos on the pond comfortable enough for women. They were like Ed’s, primitive shelters, roofed with bark and sadly out of repair. A good weather-tight, open lean-to must be built with a separate one as dressing-room for the ladies. All this he discussed eagerly with Ed after breakfast. They rowed Hi Dubois down to the carry, and Joe having rewarded that faithful messenger, they returned to camp.
Here Joe’s pent-up enthusiasm broke loose.