“No oars,” objected Florence.
“Can pole her close to shore,” replied Tillie. “Try to take her down to our camp.”
This proved a Herculean task. The boat was clumsy and hard to steer. Three times she filled and all but sank. Bailing with a small wooden box they found was slow work. They reached camp at last, tired, soaked to the skin, and ravenously hungry.
“Ought to have caught some fish,” Tillie said remorsefully. “Too late now. Only bullheads bite in the dark. They stay in the bullrushes. None here.”
They made a fire, dried their clothes, then heated some water in a hollow stone. To this water they added bitter willow leaves. As they sipped this they pretended they were drinking tea.
“To-morrow,” said Tillie with a sigh, “I’ll catch a lot of fish.”
“To-morrow I would like to go home.”
“Well, maybe,” replied Tillie thoughtfully. “All depends on that old boat. If she only soaks up so she don’t leak like a gill net, we might.”
There was nothing left for it but to attempt to round out the night with sleep. They were tired enough for that, beyond question.
After building a hot fire, they curled up in their herring box shelter and prepared to sleep.