We made the plush seats up into beds that night and, oh, didn't we sleep, with the breeze blowing in through the windows! It was dandy.
In the morning none of us said anything about dinner. That was funny, because most always that's the principal thing we talk about on Sunday mornings, especially at Temple Camp. Once Wig said that he guessed the hike around the lake through the woods would make us good and hungry, and I noticed Pee-wee didn't say anything. He was so still you could hear the silence.
Along about ten o'clock we saw the boat coming over. Two of the girls were in it, and each of them was rowing with one oar. The boat went swirling around in circles.
"That's what they call the waltz stroke, I guess," Connie said; "they'd get along better if they had some dreamy music."
Westy gave me a sly wink and said, "If you can't do a thing, do it anyway."
Pee-wee stood on the shore with a scowl on his face watching them. The girls were Grace Bentley and another one they called Pug Peters. They have awful funny nicknames for each other, girls do. They flopped against shore about fifty feet from where they intended to land, and they giggled as if they thought it was a lot of fun.
"This boat reminds me of a balky horse," Pug Peters said.
"It reminds me of a pin wheel," I told her.
"Oh, you needn't talk," she said; "you started to go about five miles south and you landed eighty miles west—in your old car."
"Scouts aren't afraid of long distances," I told her; "they don't bother with little five-mile runs."