“‘Over on the Jersey side,’” hummed Tom. “Look here, six miles may appeal to you chaps, but it likes me not.”
“Well,” inquired Alf belligerently, “what do you propose, Mr. Fixit?”
“I propose, Mr. Grouch, that we walk up the river instead of down.”
“That’s so,” agreed Dan. “There’s a bridge about a mile and a half up there. That would make it only about four miles and a half to school instead of six.”
“And six is a most optimistic calculation of the other route,” added Tom. “I’ll bet it’s nearer seven.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any place in this old stream where we could ford it, is there?” asked Alf, looking wrathfully at the river.
“Guess not. You know we can go in canoes up as far as the old coal wharf, and that’s a good four miles above here.”
“We might swim it,” said Gerald.
“Yes, and get our clothes wet and have pneumonia,” responded Alf. “I guess not. Come on, then; we’ll foot it to the bridge.”
“Well, let’s do something. I’m getting frozen.” And Dan led the way back along the edge of the river. When they had reached their picnic site they stood for a moment around the dwindling fire and warmed their chilled bodies.