The light was fast fading out of the sky, save where the west was still riotous with colors. The big oaks on Acorn Island grew black as the shadows gathered beneath them.
At the nearer end was the hillock where they were to camp. Here the grove was open and they could see the cabin standing, with two tents beside it. One of the tents had a raised flap, and there was the stovepipe with a curl of smoke coming out of it.
Down at the edge of the shore—a smooth and sheltered bit of beach where the landing was easy—a man was sitting, smoking his pipe. A beautiful canoe, of Indian manufacture, had its bow drawn up beside him.
The boys and girls shouted a welcome as they drove in toward the shore. He rose, knocking the ashes from his pipe, and waved a hand toward the camp above. He was a tall man, almost as black as a negro, with long, black hair, and was barefooted. 91
“All right!” he grunted, gutturally. Then he pushed off, stepped into his canoe, and paddled away without another word.
The boats were beached and the young people began to disembark. Before the guide in the canoe got half way to the northern shore of the lake, he was lost to their sight, the darkness came down so suddenly.