Tim, Bobby, and Bill had worked hard at the tent pegs, but had made only about half the required number. This, however, was not considered important, since the remainder could be made after they arrived at the camping-place.
When the party broke up that night it was with the understanding that each one would be at the boat as early as possible, and it was hard work for any of them to get to sleep that night. But nearly all of them were up and dressed before the sun had any idea that it was time for him to show his face in the east.
It was hardly half-past six when everything, from the tent to Bill Thompson’s live hen, was in the boat, packed snugly. The flag was raised at the stern of a thin slab of drift-wood, held in place by Jimmy Newcomb, who was given the position of helmsman, owing to the fact that his father owned the boat. The remainder of the party were to take turns at rowing, and when the boat was pushed away from the shore, four oars were worked as vigorously as the boys at the end of them knew how.
Bill Thompson started a song, in which all joined; Tip barked until there was danger that he would become hopelessly hoarse; and the old hen cackled and scolded, as if she knew just what her fate was to be.
There was only one settlement on Minchin’s Island, and it was the plan of the party to row around the coast until they reached a point as nearly opposite the village as possible. The distance was fully ten miles; but no one thought the labor would be too great if, by dint of hard rowing, they could reach a place that was uninhabited, and each was ready to take his turn at the oar whenever another was tired.
Now, Bill Thompson was a great stickler for discipline; and although he had said nothing about it when the details of the voyage were under discussion, he had a plan which he began to carry into execution as soon as the journey was fairly commenced.
“Now, we’ve got to do this thing right,” he said, as he braced himself in the bow, where he could have a view of all hands. “We must choose different ones to do different things, so’s we’ll know what we’re about. We’ve got to have cooks, an’ I nom’nate Tim Babbige an’ Bobby Tucker to take care of the victuals an’ do the cookin’.”
Bill paused, as if for some one to second the proposition, and Jimmy Newcomb said—not very properly, to be sure, according to the rules laid down for the election of gentlemen to office, but still quite emphatically enough to show he meant it—