"I haven't a particle," Clyde confessed. "If I had, I wouldn't need to invest. Go ahead, however; I'm all ears." He pulled his chair closer and listened intently while the other outlined the plan, his weak gray eyes reflecting the old hero-worship of his college days. To him, Boyd Emerson had ever represented the ultimate type of all that was most desirable, and time had not lessened his admiration.
"It looks as if there might be a jolly rumpus, doesn't it?" he questioned, when the speaker had finished.
"It does."
"Then I've got to see it. I'll put in my share if you'll let me go along."
"You go! Why, you wouldn't like that sort of thing," said Emerson, considerably nonplussed.
"Oh, wouldn't I? I'd eat it! It's just what I need. I'd revel in that out-door life." He threw back his narrow shoulders. "I'm a regular scout when it comes to roughing it. Why, I camped in the Thousand Islands all one summer, and I've been deer-hunting in the Adirondacks. We didn't get any—they were too far from the hotel; but I know all about mountain life."
"This is totally different," Boyd objected; but Clyde ran on, his enthusiasm growing as he tinted the mental picture to suit himself.
"I'm a splendid fisherman, too, and I've plenty of tackle."
"We shall use nets."
"Don't do it! It isn't sportsmanlike. I'll take a book of flies and whip that stream to a froth." Emerson interrupted him to explain briefly the process of salmon-catching, but the young man was not to be discouraged.