Ben beamed and blushed.
“It was great, wasn’t it?” he returned. “But I’m sorry about the canoe, Uncle Jim. She is badly ripped, I’m afraid. There she is, still afloat. I’ll go out and fetch her in.”
“But what about those things—the pen and comb?” asked Uncle Jim with sudden anxiety. “Were they with the dunnage?”
“They’re safe in my pocket here, sewn in and pinned in,” replied Ben. “I thought something like this might possibly happen and I wasn’t taking any chances.”
McAllister smiled gravely and tenderly.
“I guess you were taking more chances than you knew about, lad,” he said. “But it was a fine shoot, so why worry?”
Ben took off his wet coat, jumped into the pool, swam out to the wounded canoe and brought it ashore. Together they emptied her and lifted her out of the water. Her strong, smooth canvas was torn through and ripped back for a distance of two feet and five of her tough, flat ribs were cracked and telescoped.
“We had a barrel of fun, Ben, but I reckon we didn’t save much time,” said Uncle Jim.
They hid the canoe where she would be safe until they could return for her, and continued their journey on foot. They walked along the edge of the river, on pebbles and smooth ledges of rock, until long after sunset. Then they climbed the high bank and hunted about for a road of some sort that might lead them to a house and food. They were on the wrong side of the river to find the highroad; and after half an hour of searching they decided that they were on the wrong side of the river for finding anything. McAllister had matches in a watertight box, so they built a big fire, made beds of ferns and dry moss and fell asleep hungry but hopeful.