"Guess we do," said Mort. "Bring you anything when we come?"
"Ye-es. Fetch the lake right along. Bring me the upper eend of the creek. You'll find it lyin' right there."
"Guess we will," said Mort. "Now, Quill, h'ist her. Shove!"
How they did shove! But the old miller came out into the road and took the Ark by the head, and after that about all the boys had to do was to change the rollers forward as the strong-armed fat old fellow dragged the light skiff along.
"There, boys. You're a plucky brace of spring chickens. In with her, now. She's afloat agin."
"Thank you, Mr. Getty."
"Don't forget to fetch me back Pawg Lake, when you find it. An' the crooked eend of the creek."
"Crooked?" said Quill. "Tell you what, I guess we'll have to meandrew pretty much all the way."
"Andrew what? Oh yes. Guess you will. Go it! Good-by."
Off they went, and now their time had come for actual rowing. The upper pond of Corry Centre was well known to be a deep one. It was wonderfully, perilously far from its smooth surface to the home of the eels on its weedy bottom in some places. It lay in a narrow valley, however, between the slopes of steep hills, and it was long rather than wide.