The lessons that are brought home to us by bitter experience are the ones that remain the longest; and Cuthbert had never forgotten the bitterness of spirit that haunted him on that cruise.
He had learned his lesson thoroughly, and two things stood out above all others as the right and proper course for an intelligent cruiser to do—never pass a fine site for a camp when the afternoon sun was more than half way down its course; and upon starting out in the morning always manage to get a good breakfast, as there could be no telling when another meal would come along.
Eli was willing to go ashore, as usual, and Owen made no comment.
So the boats were drawn up on the shingle, and the little party disembarked.
Cuthbert had made no mistake about the location, for it was a charming spot, and the view out on the river absolutely unique; since with little effort one could see both up and down for a long distance.
And others had in times gone by utilized this same ground as a stopping place; for there was to be seen a fireplace made of stone in just the proper spot, where the prevailing wind would fan the blaze as the meal cooked.
In camping there are scores of little wrinkles which come perfectly natural to the experienced hand, but are totally unknown to the novice; the only way to learn is to ask questions just as boldly as though claiming Missouri for one's native State.
Cuthbert had one particularly favorite dish, which every now and then he insisted upon foisting upon his comrades; and from the way Eli's eyes glistened whenever he saw the Virginia canoeist starting to make preparations looking toward this compound it might be surmised that the infliction was not unbearable and could be endured about every day in the week.
He called it the Homeric kabab, and claimed that it had been handed down from the days of the old Grecian writer and philosopher; which, if true, proved that Homer knew a delicious thing when he tasted it.
It surely was a thing to conjure with.