The next morning Art, as always, was the first up. He rose from his blanket, aware that it was dawn, and rubbed his eyes. Where was the dim black wall of the mountain which had gone up against the stars the night before? He ran out of the grove into a clear space and gazed up Copper Mine Brook into a white wall of cloud. Back the other way, he saw that the narrow valley in which they were was hung along the surface with white mist, as the water of the Lake of the Dismal Swamp used to be; and the western hills beyond it were in cloud. Yet overhead the dawn sky appeared to be blue.
“Guess we’re in for a bad day,” he muttered, peeling off his clothes and tumbling into the shallow, swift waters of the brook. He emitted a loud “Wow!” as he fell into the deepest pool he could find. Was this ice water? He got out again as quickly as possible, and began hopping up and down to dry himself, his body pink with the reaction.
His “Wow!” had wakened the camp, and the rest were soon beside him.
“How’s the water?” asked Peanut.
“Fine!” said Art, winking at Mr. Rogers.
Peanut, without a word, rolled over the bank. His “Wow!” sounded like a wildcat in distress.
“Cold?” asked Rob.
“Oh, n-n-no,” said Peanut emerging with chattering teeth. “W-w-warm as t-t-t-toast.”
The rest decided to cut out the morning bath, in spite of Art’s jeers. Even Mr. Rogers balked at ice water. They were all looking, with much disappointment, at the cloud-covered mountain above them.
“Wait a bit,” said the Scout Master. “This is going to be a fine day—you’ll see.”