The unfortunate ending of the paddle race had a most depressing effect upon the members of the canoe club, some of whom declared that their organization was on the eve of falling to pieces. After that every thing “dragged”. The whole programme was duly carried out, but the contestants did not enter into the sports with their usual spirit and energy. Scott and Lord, who were “booked” for the sailing and upset races, respectively, won nothing at all. They could not win fairly, and the promptness with which Tom and Frank had been ruled out deterred them from attempting any tricks. Arthur Hastings won the paddle race after a hard struggle; Joe Wayring, being the first to walk the greasy pole, carried off Miss Arden’s silk flag; and Roy for once went home as empty handed as he came, the sailing and upset races being won by other boys. But Roy wasn’t mad about it, as some of the unsuccessful ones were. He had come there for a “good time”, and he had it; and his failure to win a prize did not spoil his day’s sport.
After the spectators had gone back to their hotels and all the members of the club had set out for home, the three chums sat down in the boat-house to compare notes.
“I am glad it’s over,” said Roy, giving expression to the thoughts that were passing through the minds of his companions. “It was the meanest meet I ever heard of. I wouldn’t have had that affair at the stake-boat happen for any thing. Those visitors from New London will say that we are as bad as the professional oarsmen who saw their boats, and capsize themselves on purpose.”
“Well, you expected something of the kind, didn’t you?” said Joe. “I did. When Bigden told me that there were certain boys in the club who had been ‘booked’ to win certain races, I was sure that Prime had a finger in the pie, and that the reason Tom told me about it was because he had got mad at him or some member of his party. The events of the day have proved that I was right. In making up the slate, Prime and his friends either forgot or refused to give any of the races to Tom and his cousins, and that was what caused the trouble.”
“Well, it’s some satisfaction to know that they will never have a chance to cause us any more trouble,” said Arthur. “They will withdraw from the club, of course.”
“I think there’s no doubt about that,” said Joe. “I know that that is what I should do if I were in their place. As Tom Bigden said: ‘What’s the use of belonging to a club if you are not allowed to take part in the contests?’ I am of the opinion that they will band together and get up a club of their own. Now let’s talk about something else. To-morrow we start for Indian Lake.”
This was a much more agreeable topic of conversation than the canoe meet, and they talked about it until the lengthening shadows admonished Arthur and Roy that it was time for them to set out for their homes.
Indian Lake was a favorite place of resort for the Mount Airy sportsmen, and for these three boys in particular. They went there regularly every summer. The country about the village was not wild enough to suit them, and besides the trout streams were so constantly fished by the New London anglers, that they were beginning to show signs of giving out. Joe and his friends were so well acquainted with the lake that they never thought of taking a guide when they went there for recreation. They went everywhere that a guide could take them, and with no fear of being lost. They were joint partners in a skiff, which they had fitted up with special reference to these annual trips—a strong, easy running craft, so light that it could be carried over the portages without any great outlay of strength, and so roomy that the boys could sleep in it without being crowded. It was provided with lockers fore and aft, in which the owners carried their extra clothing, provisions and camp equipage, an awning to keep off the sun and a water-proof tent which would keep them dry, no matter how hard the rain came down. With this boat a journey of a hundred miles—that was the distance between Mount Airy and Indian Lake, and there was a navigable water-course almost all the way—was looked upon as a pleasure trip. The boys would have been astonished if they had known what was to be the result of this particular visit to the lake.
That night there were three busy young fellows in Mount Airy, who were packing up and getting ready for an early start on the following morning. If you could have seen their things after they got them together, you might have been surprised to see that there was not a single fowling-piece among them. What was the use of taking guns into the woods during the “close” season—that is, while the game was protected by law? But each boy took with him a weapon which, in his hands, was almost as deadly as a shot gun is in the hands of an ordinary marksman—a long bow with its accompanying quiver full of arrows. The law permitted them to shoot loons—if they could. At any rate it was sport to try, and to see the lightning-like movements of the bird as it went under water at the twang of the bow-string.
“There’s one thing about your outfit that doesn’t look just right,” said Uncle Joe, pointing to the heavy bait-rod which his nephew placed in the corner beside his long bow. “The idea of catching trout with a thing like that, and worms for bait! Before you go into the woods again I will see that you have a nice light fly-rod.”