“It’s all right.”
“If I happen to use an expression you don’t like, just mention it.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Gordon.
Ten o’clock arrived—eleven. No sign of a camp-fire. Weary, sleepy, and disappointed, they turned in for the night.
The morning broke damp and foggy, with a drizzling rain veiling the country roundabout. The wind was east, the sky dull and heavy, giving no promise of clearing.
“Rain before seven,
Clear before eleven,”
sang Gordon, cheerfully. “It’ll be a good day for fishing, anyway. I’m going after minnows. We’ll see if that trickle of water doesn’t broaden out some, hey?”
“I can tell you that without going,” said Harry. “It does. It flows into the lake.”
“Rises in Bulwagga Mountain,” said Gordon, “takes an easterly course, and flows into Lake Champlain. Correct; be seated, Master Lord.”