At half past eight o’clock the patrol was off for Borden’s Ford.
[CHAPTER XII]
THE CASK IN THE RIVER
From the cave to Borden’s Ford the advance was a continuous frolic. The banks of the river were of rock and at places these closed in, making little gorges through which the stream broke into rougher water. Now and then there were places that might be called rapids. Particularly, just below Borden’s Ford there was a long riffle over which the water boiled and bubbled until it entered the gorge at Big Butternut. As there was a sharp turn in this narrow defile the narrowed river swept up in foam-crested waves.
Here, picnickers frequently spread their lunch. The younger folks always lingered to throw sticks and logs down the riffle to see them tossed about in the miniature whirlpool. From above the head of the riffle there was boating as far as the quarry.
At Big Butternut Whirlpool the scampering Wolves came to a welcome stop, with a general demand that the patrol be allowed to go in swimming.
“That’s where there’s nothin’ doin’!” answered Connie. “I promised Mr. Trevor that no one would be allowed to ‘shoot the rapids.’”
“You did?” shouted Art. “Well what’d we come for? He didn’t say nothin’ to me.”
“There was no need,” smiled Connie. “I’m the boss. That’ll do for all.”