“What would we be after doing with the leftovers?” ventured Jimmie.
“And how would I keep my big boat evenly balanced?” demanded Herb. “Sure you fill a place in the circle, Buster, and a very important one. We’d miss you if you ever gave up the ship, and took the train back home.”
“Well, I promise you I won’t,” smiled Nick; “at least so long as you keep up the same sort of bill of fare we’ve had today. Yum! yum! what’s the use of wasting a fine piece of browned trout like that? I call it a wicked shame. Here, Josh, don’t you dare throw that away. Set it aside on that nice clean piece of birch bark. Somebody might get hungry later on, and enjoy a bite.”
This standing joke of Nick’s clamorous appetite seemed never to lose its edge. The rest of the boys could always enjoy seeing him make way with his share of the meal. In fact, had a change come over the fat boy, they would have felt anxious, believing him sick.
So Jack went back to his fishing, of which he seemed never to tire, and the others found something to employ their time and attention while the afternoon sun dropped lower toward the western horizon.
By now the Big Lake looked like a lookingglass, so still had the waves become. A haze prevented them from seeing any great distance away—one of those mid-summer atmospheric happenings that are apt to develop at any time when the weather is exceedingly warm.
Evening came at last, and they sat as usual around the camp fire, having enjoyed the meal Josh and his willing assistants, Jimmie and Nick, had placed before them. Everything looked favorable for getting off in the morning; and should the lake remain calm Jack believed they might be able to make the Soo by another night.
Suddenly, and without the slightest warning a disturbing factor was injected into this quiet restful camp. Jack thought he heard a sound like a groan near by, and raised his head to listen. Yes, there was certainly a movement at the west side of the camp, as though something was advancing. And as he stared, his hand unconsciously creeping out toward the faithful little Marlin shotgun, a figure arose and came staggering toward the group.
Loud cries broke out as the boys scrambled to their feet. And there was a good excuse for their consternation; for in this ragged, dirty, and altogether disreputable figure they recognized, not a wandering hobo, but Bully Joe, the crony of Clarence Macklin!