"Are you going to make any sketches out here?"
"It would take an awful lot to keep me from it. I have a stack of canvas that has to be daubed up. And talk about fine views, never saw anything to beat 'em."
"I met Mr. Barton several times," went on Fenton. "He sort of took to me because I came from New York."
"Yes, that's where he used to live," said Bob. "Uncle Isaac came out here a good many years ago. He has some big orchards a few miles away—grows all sorts of fruits, you know. He bought this house because it's right near the lake."
"Mighty good of him to invite us out here, wasn't it?" put in Sam Randall.
"Uncle got the idea of going to Europe," added Bob, by way of explanation, "so he suggested that the whole crowd come over. And he left a colored boy to do the cooking, too."
Fenton nodded, and Bob went on, "The Rambler Club rendered father a big service not long ago. We took a trip for him, and on the way some fellows blew up our motor boat."
"Blew it up?" gasped Fenton.
"Yes—into a thousand bits. I'll tell you about it some time. Well, dad insisted upon making up the loss in some way, and when Uncle Isaac proposed this jaunt, I didn't have any trouble in fixing it up. Uncle Isaac and his wife left a bit sooner than they expected, and hustled us out here."
"Nothing could have suited me better," declared Fenton, warmly. "I guess you won't mind my mixing in with you once in a while. Most of the visitors in town are elderly people, and the boys," he lowered his voice, "well, they're good enough chaps in their way, but not just the sort I like. Jim Havens and Tom Sanders are the two I know best."