"Five miles! Great Scott! An' with all our stuff! Let's find a rig."
"Get out," sniffed Dick. "We can hire Luke and the biggest of these boys; how about it, Bob?"
Bob's eyes lighted up quizzically.
"If we can't stand five miles on a nice, smooth road, fellows—why—"
"It would look mighty bad for us ever reaching that Jabberwock," said Dave, very softly. He smiled. "Anyway, we've proved that universal customs are sometimes good things."
A bargain was quickly made with Luke and two of the boys; then, flinging a good-bye to the old chap on the string-piece, the crowd started off.
It was just the kind of weather for walking. The cool, brisk air sent the blood tingling through their veins. The road fell steadily behind, and within a quarter of an hour houses were passed only at intervals. Upon looking back from a height, they saw Rawdon spread out, a confused mass of grayish buildings climbing up and down gentle slopes, while beyond lay farmhouses and rugged hills. Range after range extended off, until the gloomy gray sky seemed to creep down and shut them from view.
The road soon left the Columbia River, keeping so far inland that it disappeared entirely.
"Wouldn't it be fine if we should meet Uncle Stanley on the way?" remarked Tim; "eh, Bob?"
"It might not be so fine for the Jabberwock," answered Bob, with a grim smile. "Unless," he added, a sudden thought having come to him, "your uncle's changed his mind, Tim, and intends going with us."