“That’s what I call a view,” he declared pointing toward the north.
“I’ll say it is,” Jack agreed enthusiastically.
Before them stretched the broad expanse of Moosehead Lake, its surface dotted with many small islands and bordered with rugged mountains whose tops lost themselves in the blue haze thirty miles away. Half way up the lake Mount Kineo reared its rocky head while the Kineo House, one of the finest summer hotels in the country, nestled at its foot.
“I’ll bet Europe has got nothing on this,” Jack declared.
“If it has I’d sure like to see it. But that reminds me of a story.”
“Go ahead if it isn’t too long,” Jack told him. “But make it snappy.”
“Once upon a time,” Bob began, “an American was travelling in Europe and turning up his nose at everything his companion, an Englishman, showed him. ‘We’ve got a bigger one than that in America,’ he would say. Finally they came to Mount Vesuvius, which, at the time was belching out volumes of smoke. ‘There,’ asked the Englishman, ‘have you got a bigger volcano than that in America?’ The American hesitated a moment then said, ‘Mebby not but we’ve got a waterfall that would put the blamed thing out in two minutes.’”
“Three cheers for that guy,” Jack laughed. “He had the right spirit.”
Leaving the town behind they struck into the forest.
“Say good bye to civilization,” Bob cried. “We won’t pass another house except three summer camps and a log cabin for forty miles.”