“And he was an old guide, you say?” exclaimed Roy.
“Sartin. Guides ain’t no more infallible than other folks. I have been lost myself; but my employer didn’t know it, I bet you. I kept my head about me, and worked my way out all right. Well, good-by. You can eat supper on the shore of that pond if you hold the direct course; but if you lose it don’t grumble at the compass.”
The boys knew just how hard it was for a bewildered person to place implicit faith in the needle, for they had been lost scores of times in the woods in the immediate vicinity of Mount Airy; but they did not get lost this time. Joe Wayring went in advance, carrying me in one hand and the little brass box in the other, and brought his companions to No-Man’s Pond, as the spring-hole was called, in ample time to catch and cook a supper of trout and make all the necessary preparations for the night. Twice while we were on the way we came in sight of the portage that led from Indian Lake to the spring-hole, but we could not see any signs of a path. It was completely concealed by the huge trees that that lazy guide had cut across it.
“I wonder if this is the place we’re looking for,” said Joe, depositing me at the roots of a spreading balsam and taking the camp basket from his back. “It must be. Here are the mountains on three sides of us and the hills on the other, and over there is the golden bathing beach that Mr. Swan told us of. Hi yi! Did you see that?” he added, as a monster trout showed himself above the water within easy casting distance of the edge of the lily-pads.
“I should say so,” replied Arthur. “I don’t care whether this is No-Man’s Pond or not; there are big trout in it, and this is a splendid place to build a shanty. Now let’s get to work. Who will put the canvas canoe together and catch supper for us? who will cut the wood and pick browse for the beds? and who will throw up a roof of some sort for us to sleep under to-night? Most any thing will do, as there are no signs of rain. To-morrow we will pitch in, all hands, and put up a good house.
“I’ll pick the browse,” said Roy, who was lying prone upon the leaves fanning himself with his hat. “I’m just tired enough to do such lazy work. I’ll tell you what’s a fact, fellows: If I were Mr. Hanson, and could find out what guide it was who choked up that portage, I’d never give him another day’s employment as long as he and I lived. I am tired to death and roasted besides.”
The others said they were too, but they did not waste time in grumbling over it. They set to work at once, Arthur clearing the leaves from the ground on which he intended to erect the lean-to, while Joe took me from my case and made me ready for business. After that he put Fly-rod together, fastened a couple of flies to his leader, and shoved through the lily-pads to catch that big trout, or others like him, for supper. By that time Roy Sheldon had mustered up energy enough to take his double-bladed ax from his basket and go in search of firewood. They worked to such good purpose, one and all, that, by the time the sun went down and darkness settled over the spring-hole, they were ready for the night. The browse lay a foot deep all over the floor of the lean-to; the beds were made up side by side, with a pillow (a little bag of unbleached muslin, left open at both ends and stuffed with browse) at the head of each; the fire had burned down to a glowing bed of coals, over which the trout and coffee-pot were simmering and sputtering; and the whole was lighted up by the Ferguson jack-lamp which hung suspended from a clipped bough close at hand. A tramp of twelve miles on an August day, through a wilderness so dense that not the faintest breath of air can reach you is no joke; and it was little wonder that the boys were too tired to talk. They ate their trout and johnny-cake and sipped their weak coffee in silence, and then crawled to their beds under the lean-to without thinking to wash the dishes; although that was a disagreeable duty they seldom neglected. They slept soundly, too, in blissful ignorance of the fact that there was another camp within less than three miles of the spring-hole, and that the owners of that camp were looking for them.
Nine hours’ sleep has a wonderfully rejuvenating effect upon a healthy boy; and when our three friends left their blankets at five o’clock the next morning, and started on a keen run toward the “golden bathing beach” before spoken of, they were their own jolly, uneasy selves again. A hasty dip in the water, which was so cold that they could not long remain in it, two or three hotly contested races along the beach to get up a reaction, followed by a vigorous rubbing with coarse towels, put them in the right trim for more trout and johnny-cake; and the trout and johnny-cake put them in the humor for the work that must be done if their sojourn at the spring-hole was to be a pleasant one. The Indian Lake wilderness was noted for its sudden and violent storms, and when they came the boys meant to be ready for them. They did not forget to wash the dishes this time, and then Arthur and Joe went to work to build the shanty, while Roy busied himself in collecting a supply of fuel and building a range.
If you have never passed a vacation in the woods, you probably do not know that a camp fire and a camp range are two different things. The first is made directly in front of the open part of the shanty, and is intended for warmth and comfort, and for light, also, when you have no lantern or jack-lamp. The range is built off on one side, a little out of the way, and is made by placing two green logs, five or six feet long, and eight inches in diameter, side by side on the ground, about a foot apart at one end, and nearly touching at the other. The open end of the range is placed to windward—that is in the direction from which the wind blows—to create a draft, and the upper sides of the logs are hewn off square with an ax, so that the pots, pans, and kettles will stay where they are put, and not slip off into the fire. You build a hard-wood fire between these logs, and when it has stopped blazing and burned a thick bed of coals you are ready to begin your cooking. To facilitate the handling of hot dishes on the range, Joe Wayring had a pair of light blacksmith’s tongs, with the jaws curved instead of straight. This was the handiest little tool I ever saw. With its aid Joe could pour out coffee, dish up soup, and remove the frying-pan from the range; and, as the tongs were always cold, no one ever saw him dancing about the fire with burned fingers.
The boys worked until three o’clock without even stopping for lunch, and then Roy got into the canvas canoe and pushed out to catch trout enough for supper, while Arthur cut down evergreens to furnish fresh browse for the beds. It was about this time that I introduced them to you in the first chapter. Joe Wayring had just put the finishing touches upon the shanty (I didn’t wonder that he was satisfied with it, for Mr. Swan himself could not have put up a neater little house) and started the conversation with which I commenced my story. He gave it as his opinion that their camp was well out of Tom Bigden’s reach, and that Matt Coyle and his boys were much too indolent to walk twelve miles through a thick wood just to get into a fight with them; and at the very moment he said it some of those whose names he had mentioned were trying their best to find him.