Mr. Durland remained on the bank with Don beside him. He could see that the dog wanted to jump in with the boys, but felt that he ought not to leave the Scout-Master alone. So Mr. Durland picked up a dry stick and, showing it to Don, said, “Here, boy, fetch it back!” and threw it into the stream.
In three bounds Don had reached the brink of the pool and dashed in, covering the boys with spray. In less time than it takes to tell, he had grasped the stick in his strong, white teeth, and clambered up the bank.
Pausing only long enough to give himself a shake, which sent a miniature shower into the air, he ran proudly up to the Scout-Master and dropped the stick at his feet. Mr. Durland patted his wet head approvingly, and this performance was repeated several times, much to the delight of both boys and dog. When it came to swimming, Don could beat any of them, and the water seemed almost to be his natural element.
But time was passing, and at last the boys had to climb out reluctantly and dress.
“Gee,” said Bob Hart, “we’ll have to try to get down here as often as we can,” and this sentiment was heartily echoed by the others.
They now proceeded to the camp, and when they reached there found that the foreman, Mr. Flannigan, had arrived a few minutes before.
Mr. Durland introduced himself, and handed the foreman a letter from Mr. Scott. With many grimaces and mutterings Mr. Flannigan finally deciphered the letter and, looking up, remarked:
“Shure, an’ Mr. Scott says as how yer all right, an’ by the same token, whativer Mr. Scott says goes around here, him bein’ the boss. What kin I be doin’ fur ye, sir?”
“Why, nothing very much,” answered Mr. Durland with a smile. “We are commissioned by Mr. Scott, as he no doubt tells you in his letter, to get the lay of the land around here and make a report to him. While we were about it, I thought it would be a good chance to give my Troop some idea of what a logging camp is like.”
“Shure, an’ it’s glad I’ll be to do what I kin fur yez,” said Flannigan, scratching his head. “But, bedad, it’s a poor time o’ the year to see a loggin’ camp. Most of the brave b’ys is in town or scattered around further north. At this time o’ the year ’tis little we do besides nickin’ the trees for the fall cut. Howiver, if I’m not mistaken, here come the b’ys now fur supper, an’ if ye don’t mind rough table manners, we’ll soon have a bite to eat. Here, cook!” as that individual bustled past, “set up an extra table in the bunk house for the b’ys here. More’s the pity, it’s not much we’ve got to offer ye, but such as it is, there’s never any lack, and I guess ye kin make out.”