They had proceeded but a short distance up the tributary, when a spot was discovered which Dick Travers declared was "simply grand."
An arching bower of leaves afforded an ideal shelter for the motor boat. Through the thick masses of foliage, splashes of sunlight mingled with deep shadows, and bright bits of blue sky shone here and there, all reflected as a confused blur, in the eddying current of the stream. The chattering of birds, now mild, then loud and imperious, filled the air.
Dave Brandon, whose eyes had been roving around, touched Bob Somers. "Let's have your field-glass," he said. "I'll bet that's a bald eagle."
He pointed toward the top of a fine old sycamore. Upon one of the highest branches was what appeared to be, at first glance, only a patch of bark, but on a second resolved itself into the form of a great bird. He gave no indication that their presence was known, but slowly moved his head from side to side.
"Look, he's going!" cried Sam. "Phew, what a whopper! Never saw one so close before. Don't I wish we could get a shot at it?"
"Jehoshaphat, those wings, aren't they great?" put in Dick.
The eagle soared majestically away over the tree tops, and was soon lost to view.
"There must be plenty of game around here. What do you fellows say to taking a little jaunt?" asked Sam.
"Good plan," agreed Bob. "Get out that oar, Sam, and ease her over a bit. You, too, Dick. See if we can't get right under that spreading branch. Better pitch all the stuff we'll need for lunch on shore now, eh, Tom?" he added.
A few moments more, and the "Rambler" was snugly drawn up.