It was midnight when they broke off, and too late to go back to Morton. Fortunately it was a fine night, and they camped by the fire on heaps of spruce twigs. In the morning, after drinking an enormous kettle of black coffee, and eating honey and bread, they started homewards, all piled together in the single wagon, laughing and waving farewells. The creaking of the wagon mingled with the diminishing chorus of:
“Rouli, roulant ma boule roulante,
En roulant ma boule roulante,
En roulant ma boule.”
It was the gayest time the old cabin had ever known, and it seemed almost lonely when they had gone.
“Jolly lot!” said Carl. “I fancy Mr. Farr wasn’t far wrong when he said that Larue wasn’t a bad fellow when you get on the right side of him. Anyhow, it’ll be a great relief to know that we can leave the bee-yard without being afraid that it’ll be robbed or burned out during the winter. I believe that forest fire was worth all the trouble it made.”
When they had put the hives back into their winter cases and stored the supplies carefully away in the cabin, the work for the season was finished. Bob was anxious to get back to town for the fall term, and neither Carl nor Alice were unwilling to leave. The bees would need no more attention for six or eight months, and there was nothing to keep them longer in the woods.
They left nearly all their house-keeping outfit in the shanty, boarded up the windows, and nailed up the door. The wagon came from Morton for their baggage, but they themselves preferred to go down to the railway by the river.
It was a cloudy, chilly fall day when they got into the boat for the last time, not without regret.
“Good-by, old shanty!” called Alice, as they pushed off. “I’ll be glad to see you again in the spring.”