“Just the thing,” Bob said enthusiastically. “We’ll stop for him on the way up. It will only delay us a couple of hours and we’ll more than make up for the time by having him along.”
Kernertok, an old Indian trapper, had long been a friend of the Golden Boys and it was he who had taught them all they knew about woodcraft and the hundred and one things so necessary to life in the vast forest of northern Maine.
The sun had hardly lifted its head over the horizon the next morning when they were off.
“Good-bye, good luck and be careful,” Mr. Golden, who had gotten up to see them off, shouted as they drove out of the yard.
“Sure thing,” Jack called back.
It was a beautiful morning early in August. The night had been almost cold and the early morning air, was, as Rex put it, decidedly snappy.
“I’ll bet this air’s loaded with ozone,” he declared as he drew a deep breath into his lungs.
“It’s the best ever,” Bob agreed.
“Did you ever see any thing prettier than that?” Jack asked a little over two hours later as they reached the top of a high hill.
“I never did,” Rex declared as he gazed down at the broad expanse of Moosehead Lake spread out like a mirror almost at their feet.