“No. He has gone off somewhere.”
“On the river?”
“I don’t think he is fishing. Perhaps, if you were to come in and wait a little, he might turn up.”
But this Lyndsay declined. He had run up with Pierre’s canoe, and must return to get rid of some yet unanswered letters and be in time to fish the lower pool.
At last, after a little chat about the salmon, he said: “Are you not Oliver Ellett’s son, of Boston? I think it must be so: the resemblance is strong. We were classmates at Harvard.”
“Yes,” said Ellett; “he was my father.”
“He was stroke-oar in my boat. If you are as good a fellow—oh, if you are half as good a fellow—we shall be glad to see you and your friend at the Cliff Camp.”
“It will give us great pleasure; and what shall I say to Carington?”
“That can wait. By the way, I sent that Indian of mine to the lumbermen to get a bowman for half a day. I trust he did not trouble you. I gave him strict orders. I saw he had been successful. We passed him as I came up.”
“Yes, he got some one,” said Ellett. “It was not one of our men.” And so, with further talk of flies and fish, he carefully conducted Mr. Lyndsay to his canoe, and was relieved to hear him tell Pierre to land him on the far shore.