The Rambler danced and bobbed about frightfully, drawing at her anchor and seeming to lunge forward in the waste of water. However, she was a staunch little craft, and the boys were used to her capers on the waves, and so paid little attention.
“They wouldn’t dare to venture out in a boat to-night,” was Clay’s comment. “Besides,” he added, “they know now that we are suspicious and watchful, and, unless I am greatly in error, we will hear no more of them.”
“Shall we go across now?” asked the captain.
“I’m ready if you think we can make it.”
The captain chuckled again and his shoulders shook.
“Make it?” he repeated. “Of course we can make it.”
“The tide and the wind are fighting the current,” Clay suggested, “and all we’ll have to do will be to fight the waves.”
It was rather rough getting to the north shore, but the trip was made without accident, except that Jule was thrown from his bunk and Captain Joe, the dog, and Teddy protested against the storm in ways best known to bulldogs and bears. Jule merely rubbed his eyes and crawled back into his bunk.
They found a place to anchor where the Rambler would be protected during the night by a finger of rock running out into the river. All along the shore to the north was a heavy forest. The trees swayed and creaked in the wind, and now and then a crash from the interior told of the falling of some monarch of the forest which had doubtless withstood the storms of the St. Lawrence valley for hundreds of years.
It was a wild night on the river and on the land, but the boys slept peacefully until morning. As for Captain Joe, he declared that it reminded him so much of old nights on the banks of Newfoundland that he wanted to sit up and refresh his recollection of those adventurous times.