“Oh, I hope not,” said I.
“So do I,” answered the canoe. “But I became well enough acquainted with Matt and his family during the short time I lived with them, to know that they do not intend to leave here unless they are driven away, as they were last year when they came to our village. Why, this is the best place in the world for a man who is too lazy to work, and who is not above taking things without leave. Game and fish are abundant. All the guides cultivate little patches of ground, and keep a few pigs and chickens, and as they are away from home a good part of the time, their property is left to the care of their wives and children. They can’t stand guard day and night, and consequently it is no trouble at all for Matt to steal all he wants. He has a fine hiding-place now, and as he and his family make it a point to travel different routes every time they go away from the shanty or return to it, they don’t leave much of a trail for the guides to follow, if they should make up their minds to hunt them up. Another thing,” added the canoe, in a tone of anxiety, “Matt hates Joe and his chums for two reasons: First, because their fathers turned him out of Mount Airy, and second, because they gave him such a pelting with potatoes the last time they were up here. If he is here, he will try to have revenge for that; now you see if he doesn’t.”
The canvas canoe spoke confidently, and his words occasioned me no little uneasiness; but I was greatly relieved to learn from the conversation, to which I listened while the boys were eating supper, that they were fully alive to the dangers of the situation, and that they did not mean to let the squatter take them off their guard. They were happy in the belief that Matt could not attack them, except at long range, because he had no boat to bring him alongside the skiff. It never occurred to them that he had had plenty of time to steal or build one, and that was where they made their mistake.
Up to this time we had had pleasant weather; but this particular night was a rainy one. The big drops began coming down just after the tent was put up. Then I realized for the first time what a comfortable home it was that the boys had provided for themselves. The canvas canoe and I lay on the forward locker, with the two bait-rods, the dip-net and the cocker spaniel to keep us company. On the bottom of the boat in the cock-pit sat the three chums, on either side of a table which they had made by pushing the movable thwarts close together. On the table, which was covered with a white napkin, was an array of dishes, plates and cups, all of tin, which were filled to over-flowing with ham sandwiches, bread and butter, cake, ripe fruit of various kinds and trout, done to a turn. On the stern locker stood the little stove over which Arthur had cooked the fish and made the tea, and above it hung the jack-lamp that was kept burning all night. If any thing happened—if the wind arose and the anchor dragged, or prowlers of any sort came about—the boys wanted a light to work by. Over all was the tent, with the rain coming gently down on the top of it. One side curtain was rolled up to admit the air, but the other was buttoned securely to the gunwale. Joe wasn’t going to have the squatter slip up and send a club into the cock-pit before he knew it. Taken altogether it was a cozy, home-like scene, and I no longer wondered why it was that Joe and his friends looked forward to the summer vacation with such lively anticipations of pleasure.
The boys slept soundly that night, lulled by the pattering of the rain on the roof over their heads, but the sun did not find them in bed. I caught more than my share of the trout they ate for breakfast, and that afternoon was given an opportunity to try my skill on larger game, to wit, a four pound black bass. I may add, too, that I got my first ducking, and witnessed the liveliest kind of a foot race. But I can’t say that I enjoyed it; there was too much depending on it.
“Do you remember the last time we ate breakfast here?” said Joe, as he drew up the anchor while his companions shipped the oars and pulled up the creek toward the pond. “If my memory serves me, Matt Coyle made the mouth of this brook uncomfortably warm for us for a few minutes. What would we have done if Roy hadn’t been smart enough to keep some of the potatoes out of that bag? I wonder where the old chap is now?”
“Probably he is a hundred miles away,” answered Arthur. “You don’t suppose that the people who live around the lake are going to let him stay here and steal them out of house and home, do you?”
“I am of the opinion that he and his worthless family were driven away from here long ago,” said Roy. “But still I don’t believe in trusting any thing to luck. We needn’t go ashore unless we want to, and Matt can’t bother us while we are lying at anchor. He’s got no boat, and he isn’t foolish enough to swim off to us, for we gave him a lesson the last time we were here that he will remember as long as he lives.”
We left the mouth of the brook at an early hour, and about four in the afternoon entered the pond, where I heard Joe say we would remain until the bread and bacon gave out, when we would go over to Indian Lake and lay in a fresh supply. Now Joe was sorry that he had left his bait-rod behind. The pond was noted for the number and fighting qualities of its bass, and Joe had nothing to catch them with; at least that was what he told his friends, adding that he was afraid to trust so heavy work to me.
“You’d better be afraid,” assented Roy. “If you don’t want that fine rod of yours smashed into a thousand pieces, you had better not try to catch a bass with it. But I’ll tell you what you might do, if you don’t care to sit idly here while Art and I catch all the fish and see all the fun. You might go up to the little perch hole and throw a fly there. Perhaps you will find the perch in the pond more accommodating than they were back there in the river.”