“I thought we might hike to Paul Silverton’s pheasant farm.”
“Not the wealthy sportsman?” demanded Mack Tibbets, all interest.
“That’s right. He raises unusual imported birds as a hobby. Of course, it will be pretty wet underfoot, and if any of you would rather stay here or go home—”
“Who wants to stay?” Red demanded. “We’ve been cooped up long enough. Let’s get those dishes washed pronto!”
“Hey, look fellows!” broke in Mack suddenly. “Is that the real thing or a mirage?”
By this time the sun had straggled through the clouds and was casting a few feeble beams over the drenched camp.
“The sun! Whoopee!” shouted Red, capering about like an Indian. “Aw, who turned it off?”
As if to tantalize the Cubs, the sun after its brief debut again slipped under a cloud. But a moment later, out it popped again, this time for several minutes. The Cubs, greatly cheered, went at their morning duties with a will.
By ten o’clock, knapsacks were packed with sandwiches, chocolate bars and extra wool socks.
“All set?” Mr. Hatfield asked. “We’ll have to make two boat trips across the river. I’ll take the first load with Midge, Fred, Dan and Red. Then I’ll return for the others.”