"And Beaver Brook isn't more'n two miles from the village, through the woods," said Charley, meditatively. "Wind blows right that way, too."
"It's four miles by the river, if it's an inch," said Vet Adams; for the river certainly made a wide detour.
"It's crooked as a ram's horn," declared Jeff Gammon, wiping the perspiration from his face. "A fellow has to pull all the way round Robin Hood's barn to get anywhere."
Charley laughed. "We're almost to the mouth of the brook now," said he. "There's the old pine."
And in a few minutes the scow, propelled by three pairs of stout arms, swept grandly around the point of land and into Beaver Brook, on one side, just as a light birch-bark canoe, holding two men, shot out on the other side.
"Indians!" exclaimed Charley, in a tone of great disgust. "There's a camp of 'em down the river somewhere. We won't get any fish here, boys."
Charley was right. They fished for half an hour, waiting patiently for a nibble, which they did not get.
"We'll have to go further up the brook," said Charley; and accordingly the old scow was once more set in motion.
How pleasant it was! They ran along in the shade of the willows that skirted the brook, their paddles dipping lazily, and their fishing-lines trailing in the deep still water. It was very warm in the sun, but there was a smart breeze blowing, and a prospect of showers later on.
Suddenly Charley felt a jerk on his line that, taking him unawares, nearly pulled him off his seat.