The Rival Campers; Or, The Adventures of Henry Burns

by Ruel Perley Smith

Then, toward the end of the afternoon, as the bay was still calm, they set out along the shore and gathered driftwood, which they threw in a great pile on a flat, clean ledge. As supper-time came, they set this heap afire and let it burn for an hour or two, until the great flat ledge was at a white heat. Then they made a broom of some branches of hemlock, and swept the ledge clean of ashes, and brought the clams and poured them out on the ledge, covering them all with clean, damp seaweed till there rose clouds of steam, and, after a time, an appetizing odour.

The fish they cooked in much the same way, wrapping them in big green leaves and setting them upon the hot stones to bake.

Then, as evening came on, they built the fire anew close by, for a fire is the cheeriest of companions in a strange place, and sat feasting on steamed clams and fish, with a great pot of coffee filling all the air with a most delicious fragrance. They lolled about the fire and ate, till even slim Henry Burns said he felt like an alderman. They told stories by the firelight, and stretched out at ease till sleep nearly overtook them as they lay there; for the day had been brimful of exertion. By and by, long after the stars were out, and a gentle breeze from the south, coming up softly from among the islands, just rippled the water, they rowed out to the Spray, Tom returning ashore again to begin the night’s watch.

Then, later in the night, came George Warren’s turn to watch, and he stayed it out till morning, for, with all the fun of the day, there was something that would keep turning over and over in his brain, and which took away the sleepy feeling and left in its stead a feeling of unhappiness; a sense of something wrong. His father would have said it was conscience, but George wrestled long and hard through the morning hours to avoid recognizing it as that, for conscience would say, if recognized, that it was all wrong, what they were doing,—and George Warren wanted to think he was having a good time.

These moody thoughts began to dissipate, however, with the coming of the warm golden glow in the east; and when the sun was at length up, and the boys had had their morning swim, and sat about a fire awaiting breakfast, George Warren seemed himself again.

But the breakfast was rudely interrupted by a series of whoops from young Joe, who had taken his brother’s place on guard at the end of the point of rocks, and who now came running down alongshore, crying out that there was a sail that looked like the Nancy Jane coming out from around the islands across the bay, and they all raced back to have a look at it.

“It’s the Nancy Jane, sure enough,” said Henry Burns. “It’s her big mainsail, with the high peak. She’s making slow headway, though, with this breath of wind. However, we shall have to be off at once, if we are going to try to escape.”

It was noticeable that Henry Burns said “if.”

However, as no one felt like proposing to give up, they lost no time in getting aboard the Spray, and had sail on and the anchor up in what Captain Sam would have called a jiffy. Heading out into the open bay that lay between them and the outer islands, they bade good-bye to Cold Harbour and began a long, slow beat to windward, in the light breeze.

“There’s more wind coming, down between the islands,” said Bob. “There’s a line of breeze about two miles to the southward, and we shall catch it a good half-hour before the Nancy Jane.”