After eating, they all took hold of the boat and eased it down the bank into the water.
"Now, who's goin' to catch the fish for breakfast?" asked Bert.
"I will," replied Rance, who was a "lucky" fisherman. "I'll have some fish by sun-up—see if I don't."
Their beds were hay, with abundant quilts and blankets spread above, and as Lincoln lay looking out of the tent door at the smoke curling up, hearing the horses chewing and an owl hooting, it seemed gloriously like the stories he had read, and the dreams he had had of sometime being free from care and free from toil, far in the wilderness.
"I wish I could do this all the time," he said to Milton, who was looking at the fire, his chin resting in his palms.
"I can tell better after a week of it," retorted Milton.
To a boy like Lincoln or Rance, that evening was worth the whole journey, that strange, delicious hour in the deepening darkness, when everything seemed of some sweet, remembered far-off world—they were in truth living as their savage ancestry lived, close to nature's mystery.
The pensiveness did not prevent Milton from hitting Bert a tremendous slap with a boot-leg, saying, "Hello! that mosquito pretty near had you that time."
And Bert, familiar with Milton's pranks, turned upon him, and a rough and tumble tussle went on till Rance cried out: "Look out there! You'll be tippin' over my butter!"
At last the rustle of the leaves over their heads died out in dreams and the boys fell asleep, deliciously tired, full of plans for the next day.