“They didn’t have to do that,” the Scout Master replied. “Once they had the brook dammed back the water killed the trees—killed ’em so thoroughly that this meadow has remained open long after the beavers have vanished, and their dam has been broken open by the road.”
“But why do they go to all that trouble?” said Frank again.
“How many ponds have you seen in these parts?” said Art, scornfully. “They wouldn’t make a dam if they could find a natural pond shallow enough so their houses could come up above water, like a muskrat’s, would they, Mr. Rogers? But I suppose they couldn’t find one around here, so they just made it themselves. I think they’re about the smartest animal there is.”
“You mean was,” said Peanut. “I never saw one. Did you?”
“No,” said Art, sadly. “I’d like to, though. Gee, it’s a shame the way women have to wear furs, and kill off all the animals! Sometimes I wish there weren’t any girls.”
“Well, they’re not troubling us much this week,” Mr. Rogers laughed. “Now for Lost River!”
The party turned east, and proceeded down the road for about half a mile, by an easy grade, till they came quite unexpectedly upon a souvenir post-card and “tonic” store, built of birch logs, beside the path. Here they stopped, and after buying a bottle of ginger ale apiece, a young French-Canadian lumberman, who ran the store and acted as guide during the summer season, agreed to pilot them through Lost River. He advised them to put on overalls before starting, but they scorned the suggestion. While they were debating the point with him, there was a sudden sound of voices outside, and in the doorway of the little log store appeared a party of women and girls—and one lone man.
“Poor Art!” said Peanut, giving him a poke in the ribs.
This party wanted to go through Lost River, too.
“We can’t keep the guide all to ourselves and make him lose this other job,” said Mr. Rogers. “Besides, we’re Scouts, and we ought to do a good turn and help those women folks through.”