"He of the sour face," added Dave, laughingly. "Seems real mad, eh?"
"Hey, you lot of wooden heads," shouted the trapper, "what are ye doin' out here?"
"Enjoying ourselves," laughed Havens.
"Wal, if ye bother my game another time, ye won't," snarled Joe. "Were you waterbugs crazy 'nuff ter come through the canyon on that thing?"
"Sure, Mr. Tomlin," grinned Dick.
"Don't give me none of yer imperdence, kid. I won't stand fur no sass."
"There might have been a dandy mixup if we'd been on shore," remarked the "poet," grimly.
When the sun had sunk from view behind the range of mountains the raft entered Lake Cloud, a beautiful sheet of water about two miles long, three-quarters broad, and partly hemmed in by mountains.
The rich, dark evergreens and lofty peaks were reflected with wonderful clearness in the limpid surface. Straight ahead, rising against the golden sky, was a snow-capped summit, purple and hazy, while nearer at hand were red-brown cliffs, with the higher walls still touched by a glow of sunlight.
"No words are strong enough for this scenery," declared the "poet." "Hank Merwin certainly knows where to hang out."