"But what's the use to wish?" returned Willy. "Look here, Fred; isn't there a ford somewhere near here?"
To be sure there was. They had forgotten that; and sometimes the ford was not fordable, and it was necessary to go round-about in order to cross a ferry. While they were puzzling over this new dilemma, a stage-horn sounded.
"That's the Harlow driver; he knows us," cried Fred; "let's hide quick."
They concealed themselves behind some aspen trees on the bank, and "peeking" out, could see the stage-coach and its four sleek horses, about an eighth of a mile away, driving down the ferry-hill into the river.
"Good!" said Willy; "there's the ford, and now we know. And the water isn't up to the horses' knees; so we can cross well enough."
"Yes, and get our breeches wet," groaned Fred.
"O, that's nothing. Lumbermen don't mind wet breeches," said Willy, cheerily.
"Lumbermen? Who said we were lumbermen? I shan't try it yet a while; my feet are too plaguy sore!"
"Well, nothing, I guess," yawned Fred; "lumber nor nothing else."