“Fight yourself,” said Fleet. “Sure; you told us that before.”
Hugging the shore of Grand Isle, the boys finally left Plattsburg behind. Canoeing was a pleasure now, as the weather was cooler, and a fine breeze from the south tempered the heat, and fairly pushed the canoes to the northward with its power.
Between Isle La Motte and the Vermont mainland they paddled, camping again on a promontory jutting out into the lake a few miles below Rouses’ Point.
“I tell you, fellows, this is real life,” said Fleet, and for a wonder Pod agreed with him. The grandeur of the scenery held a strange fascination for Pod, who had traveled so little. He had pictured such things very frequently, but this trip was beyond his wildest dreams, and for an entire day and a half he forgot to crack a joke—something so unusual that the boys commented upon it.
“Well, how’s this one?” he asked, as they all sat on the shore of the lake, after pitching the tent and preparing things for the night.
“How’s what one?” demanded Fleet.
“Well, give me a chance to tell it, won’t you?”
“Surely; proceed.”
“Why was the man who had been rolling all night in a steamer berth, mad when the steward opened the door in the morning and spoke to him?”
“Give it up,” said Chot.