There was a big camp on the shore, and several boats drawn up on the beach. Many signs told that this was one of the favorite places along the north shore for the white fish men to gather. Doubtless innumerable barrels of this delicate inhabitant of the Great Lakes were shipped from this coast during each season; with the supply still undiminished.
It had been agreed upon that George was not to go ashore until the rest of the little motor boat fleet arrived. This was not for half an hour or so, since the Comfort was not capable of doing better than ten miles an hour, and the more speedy Tramp had to accommodate her pace to that of the steady boat.
Nick and the rest gave the victor a good cheer as they turned the point, and entered the bay at the mouth of the famous trout river.
Then the three craft made for the beach, off which they anchored, to go ashore in the smaller boats.
There were some shanties and tents in sight, with a number of rough looking men; who however seemed glad to welcome the boys. The smell of fish was everywhere, as was natural.
“Do you happen to have a young fellow here in this camp by the name of Andy Fosdick?” Jack asked a man who seemed to be the boss.
“Yes, but just now he’s out at work. There’s a boat coming in and p’raps Andy may be one of the crew,” the other replied.
They waited until the boat landed, and those who were in it jumped out. Jack could use his judgment, and he immediately selected a sturdy looking young chap, with a skin the color of an Indian’s, as the one they sought.
“Come along, fellows,” he said to his chums; “and we’ll find out.”
He made straight for the young man; who, seeing the procession approaching, and all eyes glued eagerly on him, stood there looking curious, and a bit apprehensive, Jack thought.