“I suppose there are—very likely more, but you must remember that many of them are but mere suggestions of islands—little tufts of grass, as it were, sticking up in the river.”
“I hope we’ll be able to find a good place in which to make our camp,” said Tom.
“My idea,” said Chot, “is to scout around among the islands for a few days to see if we can’t rent some sort of a cottage or lodge, where we can be comfortable in both pleasant and stormy weather, without depending too much on our little tent.”
“That’s a fine idea,” said Bert, “but, somehow, I imagine all such places are rented.”
“Possibly. At the same time, people come and go all summer long. If we watch our chance we may be able to get what we want.”
“Don’t you think that idea deserves a poem?” asked Bert, slyly winking at Chot.
“Oh, by all means,” said Chot, returning the wink.
Not since the evening they had subjected his verses to such severe criticism had Fleet attempted to recite. It was as if all thoughts of such things had been driven from his mind.
“Now, don’t start anything,” he advised them. “You didn’t appreciate my last effort, so I’ve decided to recite my verses to the trees hereafter.”
“Well, just imagine we’re the trees,” said Pod—“and perhaps we are; we all have trunks.”