“Tip-top,” answered Adam. “We’ll cover him up and take him along, and we can have steaks enough for supper to-night and to-morrow’s breakfast, and plenty left for the birds besides.”
“Well,” cried Chap, who had been standing in a reflective mood, “this is the way things always happen. Here is Phœnix, who didn’t want to stop and fish, and who grumbled and croaked, and didn’t believe there were any fish in the river, even after he got to work; and he must catch the channel-bass, while Phil and I, who were in for the thing from the beginning, and full of honest ardor, didn’t get a bite. Haul up the sails and pull in the anchor, and let us away! It’s no use struggling against blind luck. Virtue and enthusiasm don’t count.”
This speech was received with a wild laugh, and with four merry hearts and a big fish on board, The Rolling Stone set out again upon her northward course.
Adam knew exactly where he intended to camp that night, and before dark he reached the beach of a little bay upon the eastern shore of the river.
After a hearty supper, of which channel-bass was the principal dish, and a talk by the camp-fire while Adam smoked his evening pipe, our party made everything secure for the night, and were soon asleep in their little cabin.
Chap, as we have said before, was a very early riser, and the next morning he awoke and slipped quietly out of his narrow quarters without awakening any of his companions.
As he gazed around with great delight upon the beautiful morning scene, he saw, scarcely a hundred feet from the spot where they were moored, a dirty little boat anchored near the shore.
“Upon—my—word,” said Chap to himself, “if that Maggie hasn’t put in here in the night!”
