With eager eyes he drank in the wonderful panorama constantly unfolding—as the launch sped swiftly over the lake. Here the lake was less than half a mile wide, then abruptly it opened up great bays which made it more than twice that width from shore to shore. How he longed to explore those bays and coves! Two big summer hotels on commanding bluffs were passed, showing but little life as yet, for the season had not fairly opened. On rocky points, or half hidden in sheltering coves, he caught glimpses of summer “camps,” most of them built of logs, but in many cases little short of palatial, and the boy’s lips curled with scorn at this travesty of wealth upon the simple life. Gradually the camps became fewer and farther apart until only an occasional lean-to or a tent now and then, clinging on the very edge of the forest, was evidence of man’s invasion, and Walter felt that now in truth he was entering the wilds.
From the good-natured chaff and talk of his companions he gathered that Big Jim had been chief guide at Woodcraft Camp ever since this famous school in the woods had been started, and that the two young men had been among his earliest pupils. With eager ears he drank in their talk of fish and lures, of deer, rifles and hunting lore. Occasionally, as they skirted an island or ran around a sunken reef, one or another would recall a famous catch of bass or a big laker taken there.
Of the two young men, Seaforth was the more talkative. He was dark, with sparkling black eyes and a merry, likable face, which, for all its irrepressible good-humor, had in it a strength and purpose which denoted a solid foundation of character. He was broad-shouldered, deep-chested, finely-developed, a splendid type of young American manhood.
His chum was rather slight in build, but wiry, with light hair and a rather thin, clean, serious face which gave the impression of tremendous nervous energy habitually under control. He took but little part in the conversation, but his quiet smile at the sallies between Bob and the guide was of a peculiarly winsome sweetness. His slight reserve drew rather than repelled Walter, who instinctively felt that the friendship of Louis Woodhull was something well worth the winning.
They had now come some twelve miles down the lake, and presently Bob pointed out a long pier jutting out from the eastern shore, and beyond it, just to the left of a giant pine, a flagstaff from which Old Glory was fluttering limply in the light breeze just beginning to ripple the surface of the lake.
“There you are, Upton, your first glimpse of Woodcraft,” he said. “I hope you’ll——”
But what he hoped Walter never knew. A shrill “Hy-i-i-i-i! We want that tenderfoot!” cut him short, as a canoe manned by two youngsters of about Walter’s own age shot out from an island the launch was just passing. Both boys were in trunks and jerseys and paddling like mad to intercept the launch. Suddenly the one in the stern caught sight of the guide. For an instant he stopped paddling, while a look of pleased surprise passed over his face, and then with a wild yell of “Jim, oh, you Jim!” he redoubled his efforts.
Seaforth put the wheel over to port a couple of spokes. “No you don’t, Billy!” he called with a grin. “This boat carries Uncle Sam’s mail, and it can’t stop to pick up tows.”
“Aw, Louis, slow her down, won’t you?” begged Billy.
Louis smiled good-naturedly; but the engine slowed down not a bit.