“Why, Uncle Phin!” exclaimed the boy, “if we haven’t come off and forgotten the broom!”
“So we has, Honey! so we has!” replied the old man, pausing in his work and assuming an expression of mock dismay, “I ricollec now, when de furnichure man putten in dem elergent brack walnut bedstids, he say, ’Misto Phin Dale, don you fergit somefin’; and I say, ‘No, Misto Furnichure man, I reckin not.’ Now, he mus er been meanin de broom all de time, an hyar we is come off an lef it behin.”
“You are making fun of me, you know you are,” laughed Arthur; “but really, I do need a broom very much, for I can’t make this place look tidy without one.”
“You mus hab one, ob cose,” said Uncle Phin, “an we’ll jes run inter de sho and fin some white birch trees, an Unc Phin make you a twig broom, jes de fines you ebber seen.”
They were both glad of an excuse to stop and make a landing, for they were enjoying their voyage so much that they feared it might come to an end more quickly than they wished it to. So they went on deck, and watched for a good opportunity to run ashore.
At last they drifted close into a grassy bank, above which were a number of huge oil tanks, a brick building, and a neat white cottage. It was a pumping station on one of the great pipe lines through which crude petroleum is conveyed from the wells of the oil region to the distant seaboard refineries. At that time it was thought necessary to have relay stations of tanks, and pumps to force the oil along from one to another, every five or six miles. Of late years, however, the pumps have grown larger and stronger, until, on a recently constructed pipeline leading into Chicago, one immense pumping engine forces the oil along the entire distance of 250 miles.
As the Ark drifted slowly along in front of this pleasant-looking place, Uncle Phin, directing Arthur how to steer, loosened the side sweep that was farthest from shore, and, by rowing with it, headed their craft in toward the bank. In a minute more she was so close to it that Arthur could easily spring to the narrow beach, carrying with him the end of a rope, that he made fast to a tree.
CHAPTER XII.
A TORRENT OF FLAME.
When the boat was properly secured, Uncle Phin, leaving Arthur to look out for it, shouldered his axe and went in search of a birch tree. Within half an hour he returned, bringing a great bundle of twigs and the interesting information that there was a little boy and a little girl up in the bushes picking blackberries.
“Oh, can’t I go up there and pick some too?” asked Arthur; “they would be so good for dinner, and if I got enough you might make a pie, you know.” He was fully in earnest, for he had such firm faith in Uncle Phin’s culinary skill that he believed he could make anything good to eat that anybody else could.