[CHAPTER X]
A REAL HERO
Dave Brandon was not averse to being left alone. Nature, in its wildness and solitude, appealed to him forcibly, and he loved to contemplate it in silence and with naught to distract his attention.
When his friends disappeared in the woods, he lazily stretched himself on a grassy knoll, drew out his volume of Bryant, a note-book and pencil.
"Oh ho," he murmured, "what a glorious day it will be. Nothing but poetry, a composition on nature, and—yes,—first of all, a little nap on this delightful ridge."
The blue sky was flecked with whitish clouds, a slight breeze rustled the grass and leaves, while the river simmered in the early morning light.
It wasn't very long before the stout poet laureate, with his hat shielding his eyes, yielded to the pleasant feeling of sleepiness, dozing away, in that soft and delicious slumber which a care-free conscience and comfortable position are potent factors in bringing about.
An hour passed, then two, no doubt. The lad, in his world of bright-hued visions, dreamed of many things, but certainly not of that which was destined to happen before he saw his friends again.
The third hour had not yet ended, when two men appeared on the river bank making toward the motor boats with a stealth and precaution which showed conclusively that some object other than curiosity guided their actions.