Dave laughed good-naturedly as he spread out a blanket.
"Going to be close quarters," exclaimed Bob. "Never mind; choose your places, fellows."
This was soon done, but either the novelty of the situation or the restriction of their quarters prevented most of them from passing a comfortable night. The principal exception was, of course, Dave Brandon.
All were astir when the morning mists hung in long streamers over the river and shore, and the distance was blotted out by yellow haze.
Bob Somers and Sam Randall went ashore with their rods and fishing-lines and made their way to a partly submerged log.
"Ought to be a good place," observed the former. "Let's see what we can catch for breakfast."
The young anglers knew from experience that fish often haunt tree roots and hollows. They moved with the greatest caution, casting their lines with skill and success.
The excitement and uncertainty of landing the catch made time pass so quickly that loud calls began to come from the others while they were in the height of their enjoyment.
But Bob and Sam did not deign to answer. The rippling water, occasionally broken by eddies and swirls, quiet pools, framed by reeds, and humming insects all possessed a charm which made them loth to leave.
Finally, a string of four glistening white fish were gathered up, the boys then making their way back to the boat.