“You fellows have been reading Mark Twain, and think you know it all,” Kenneth remarked from his place at the tiller. “But where do you suppose we are now? Look around.”
The boys had been so busy making up an imaginary river, that they did not notice when they passed a low point and entered into what appeared to be a wider part of the stream.
“Why, you don’t know the Mississippi when you see it. Let’s give three cheers for it,” cried the captain.
“Hip-Hip, Hurrah!” The cheers rang out together, with a will.
“Now, three more for the boat.”
Again they rang out—undignified, perhaps, but fitting, in that they voiced the thanksgiving which all four of the crew felt, but could not express in words.
As the sun sank, turning the brown waters of the mighty river to crimson and gold, the “Gazelle” dropped her anchor in a little cove and rested, while her crew partook of mallard duck, shot during the day—their Thanksgiving dinner.
“People said we wouldn’t be able to cross the Lake safely, eh?” said Frank, exultingly; “and here we are anchored to the bottom of the Mississippi. We’re the people.”
“Going to take on a pilot, Ken?” suggested Arthur.
“Sure!” returned the captain. “Who will give up his berth to him?”