The Rival Campers; Or, The Adventures of Henry Burns

by Ruel Perley Smith

There was scarcely room in the cabin of the Spray for more than four of them to sit and eat, so they threw the mainsail over the stub of the boom and made a shelter out of it against the rain. There, just outside the cabin, Tom and Bob sat as they all ate supper, with the rain pouring down all around and spattering in under the edges of the canvas. It was uncomfortable and dreary at best, and they were all glad when time came to turn in, which they did by all crowding into the cabin, where they could at least keep dry, although stowed away like sardines.

“Ouch!” exclaimed Henry Burns, as he awoke next morning, feeling stiff and sore. “I feel as though I was creased and starched and ironed, and every time I move I take out a crease. It will take me half a day to straighten out again, I’ve got so many kinks in my neck and back.”

They were all cramped and lame from the uncomfortable positions in which they had lain, for on fair nights they had been accustomed to make up two bunks just outside the cabin, in the cockpit. It was still raining hard, but as soon as they had had breakfast they set out to seek for new quarters.

With the scrap of a sail set, and with the use of the sweeps with which the yacht was provided, they worked their way about a quarter of a mile along into the Thoroughfare, till they got abreast of one of the smaller of the Gull Islands. The shores of this were very bold, the rocks going down sheer, without any outlying reefs or ledges, so that they were able to run the yacht close alongside, making her fast at bow and stern with ropes carried out on land.

“It seems good to stretch one’s legs again,” said Bob, as they all sprang out on to the rocks. They were indeed glad to be on land once more.

The island on which they now were was about three-quarters of a mile long and about half a mile wide, quite densely wooded with a growth of spruce and young birches. From a little elevation they could look out to sea toward the southward.

“The shanties are on the other side, if I remember rightly,” said George Warren. “I was down here once in the fishing season. We may as well strike directly across to the south shore. That’s where the fishermen build their weirs for the salmon that run in along the islands.”

They tramped across through the woods in the pouring rain. It was a relief to get even the shelter that the trees afforded from the driving storm. Presently they came in sight of the fishermen’s cabins, a cluster of four standing in a clearing at the edge of the woods, facing the sea. One of the huts was somewhat larger than the other three, and toward this they directed their steps.

“I don’t just like to break into other people’s property,” said George Warren, advancing toward the door, hatchet in hand, “but it only means forcing a staple, and we can replace that without any harm being done. It’s the only—hulloa! Why, somebody’s been here before us. The door is ajar.”

Somebody had, indeed, forced the door, and had not taken pains to refasten it. The staple, which had been drawn, lay on the ground by the door, just where it had been dropped. The boys threw open the door and stepped inside.