Pierre assisted at the task. Though he had been impatient to get away from that locality, still too dangerously near his mother’s rule, he intended to keep an eye on everything. Paid or not paid, as Adrian fared so would he—only rather better.
“Why, they must have thought we would be in the woods a long time. They were certainly generous.”
They had been, but Pierre considered that they might have been more so.
“This was for both trips. Half is mine.”
“Nonsense. But—there. We’re not going to squabble all the time, like children. And we both know exactly what we have to depend on. We must fish and shoot—”
“How’ll you do that? The only gun is mine.”
“It’s part of the outfit. Let’s see. A good little tent cloth—not big enough to cover any but good-natured folks—salt pork, beans, sugar, coffee, tea, flour, meal, dishes. Hello! We’re kings, Ricord! Monarchs of Maine.”
“Cut the splints.”
After all, it seemed to be Pierre, who did the ordering, but Adrian had sense to see that he was the wiser of the two in woodcraft; even though he himself had made it a study during the last weeks. He seized the axe and attacked a cedar tree, from which he had soon cut the binding strips he wanted. Then he laid the paddles in the boat, fastening them with rootlets to the three thwarts. He also fastened two broad bands of the pliable splints in such a way that when it was inverted the weight of the canoe could be borne in part by the forehead and shoulders. He was ready almost as soon as Pierre had retied the pack, which was to be Adrian’s burden.
“All right! I’ll swing her up. This ‘carry’ isn’t a long one, and the first thoroughfare is ten miles before we come to dead water. But it’s up-stream that far, and we’ll have to warp up some. Part is fair, but more is rips.”