Amongst the stores were tea, sugar, candles, cheese, butter, a ham, some tinned provisions, a big jar of beer, and (Duffham should have seen it) a two-gallon keg of whisky.
“A doctor up with us said we ought to have whisky,” remarked Tod. “He is nothing but an old woman. He put some quinine powders in Johnny’s pocket, and talked of a waterproof sheet to sleep on.”
“Quite right,” said Temple. “There it lies.”
And there it did lie, wrapped round the folded tent. A large waterproof tarpaulin to cover the ground, at night, and keep the damp from our limbs.
“Did you ever make a boating tour before, Temple?” asked Tod.
“Oh yes. I like it. I don’t know any pleasure equal to that of camping out at night on a huge plain, where you may study all the stars in the heavens.”
As Temple spoke, he glanced towards a small parcel in a corner. I guessed it was one of his night telescopes.
“Yes, it is,” he assented; “but only a small one. The boat won’t stretch, and we can only load it according to its limits.”
Rupert Temple came up as we were leaving the shed. I had never seen him before. He was the only brother left, and Slingsby’s heir presumptive. Why, I know not, but I had pictured Rupert as being like poor Fred—tall, fair, bright-looking as a man can be. But there existed not a grain of resemblance. Rupert was just a second edition of Slingsby: little, dark, plain, and proud. It was not an offensive pride—quite the contrary: and with those they knew well they were cordial and free.