The flying reporter bent down and started the outboard. The shadows were lengthening and they must find a safe haven for the night.
For an hour they followed the directions Crazy John had given them, keeping always in the backwater of the great river. Then they nosed out toward the main channel. The sound of the motors of the amphibian had long since been lost and twilight was enfolding the valley.
The globe trotter came back and sat in the seat just ahead, facing Tim.
“We’d better hunt a camp site,” he said. “It’s impossible to make Auburn tonight.”
“I’ve got plenty of food and blankets,” said Tim.
“There’s a supply in my boat, too,” nodded Ford. “Let’s turn off the main river now.”
Tim sent the boat twisting around the sand bars and toward the mouth of a stream on the right bank. Trees met above the smaller stream and 200 yards up its valley they found a small clearing richly carpeted with grass.
“This is fine,” said Ford. “We ought to find a spring somewhere in the bluffs back of us.”
While Tim made the boats fast and unloaded the duffle, Ford took a water jug and went in search of water. By the time he was back, Tim had a fire, built from dry, smokeless wood, burning well. Supper was not long, with two experts in camping lending a hand.
The meal was simple—bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, bread and jam, but there was plenty of everything.