“A very lucid explanation,” said Pod. “I didn’t know the word had so much meaning.”
“Oh, you make me tired,” said Fleet.
“And you make us tired, reeling off your fake verses, and then because you’re at a loss for something to rhyme with arm, bring in a word that has no meaning.”
“If you fellows don’t like my verses why do you ask me to recite?”
“We won’t any more; be sure of that,” said Chot. “The idea. ‘Tarm!’ That’s a fine word, and your explanation of its meaning was so clear. Guess you’d better seek your little bed, my boy.”
And without another word Fleet obeyed. He knew they were right. The poem had been a makeshift piece of work from beginning to end, and only his eagerness to oblige when they asked for something had led him to recite it. Fleet had a fine talent for rhyming, which would eventually develop into something substantial, but he had a very bad habit of composing his verses quickly, hardly revising them, and throwing in rhymes that were not permissable. To get him out of this habit the boys were now determined, and the lesson on the shore of the lake was but the opening gun in the campaign.
The boys followed their usual plan in the morning of taking a bath in the lake before breakfast. The water was smooth and deep, and they swam and splashed about for half an hour before finally crawling out for a rub down. Then a cup of coffee and such eatables as they had in the canoes made them feel fit for another day’s work.
They were virtually in the Richelieu River now, which broadens out at its source until it would be difficult to tell where Lake Champlain leaves off and the river begins.
The boys found the Richelieu to be a treacherous stream. Rapids and whirlpools of a rather timid variety abounded on all sides, and frequently they were forced to steer their canoes in between huge boulders which reared themselves out of the stream.
This was new sport to each of them, and the fact that there was just a touch of danger made the trip down the Richelieu all the more enjoyable.