Tom Clifton was dispatched to the woods for more material, returning in due course with a quantity of neatly trimmed branches, most of them rather short. Two were driven into the ground in the corner of each tent and cross pieces nailed on top.
"These will do to hang our things upon," said Bob.
Having had considerable practice, the boys soon had the beds in position.
By this time Dave Brandon, spurred on by a prodigious appetite, had dressed one of the ducks, pared a surprising number of potatoes, and thrown all into their biggest pot.
"Was I ever so hungry before?" sighed the poet laureate, as he looked longingly at the simmering pot.
The boys had worked hard, and all felt glad when preparations were completed.
"I only hope that nothing disturbs me to-night," observed Sam Randall, with a yawn.
"So do I," drawled Dave; "a lot of things have certainly happened in the last twenty-four hours. Oh ho, look at that dandy sunset."
The sinking sun, resting just above a line of purplish clouds, suffused a glow across the entire sky and lighted the tree tops with a mellow warmth. A broad band of color glistened and sparkled in the lake.
"Isn't that a fine sight, boys?" went on the poet; "wish I could paint it."