"Bully for the Cap!" cried Tim. "He's not a bad old sort, after all!"
For some time they remained, talking over their plans with Tim's uncle, then trooped out, to roam idly about the clearing. The seven stopped for a moment in the long cabin used by the men and finally wandered over toward the edge of a high bluff, where they stopped to gaze at the always enchanting panorama of river and rugged shore. The broad Columbia stretched off, to finally become lost in a gray-purple haze.
Beyond the mills, and close in shore, a lumber schooner, piled high above the gunwales with short planks, lay at anchor, ready for her long trip down the river.
"Feast your eyes on the 'Osprey,' fellows," remarked Bob Somers; "Don Mason, Master."
"The staunch little craft which is to be entrusted with the precious cargo of Rambler boys," said Sam. "Say, it's pretty low in the water now; don't you think when Dave steps aboard it may be in danger of foundering?"
"Most likely there'll be nothing but groaning till she gets used to the additional strain," grinned Dave. "Mighty good of your uncle, Tim, to arrange it for us."
"You bet it was! Unk's a dandy."
"Doesn't look as if there was room for the crowd," sighed Jack, dismally.
"A thin affair like you doesn't need very much," quoth Tom, satirically. "Dave's the only one that counts. Hello—what's that?"
He pounced upon a roll of paper which had slipped from Dave Brandon's coat pocket, and, eluding the stout boy's outstretched hand, dashed away with a yell of triumph.