Monday and Tuesday of that week were rather uneventful days. The boys paddled steadily, and with the aid of the rapid current covered a good many miles.
On both evenings they found suitable camping places, and had some excellent sport fishing for catfish and eels by night.
The creek was almost at its normal level now, but Wednesday morning dawned amid conditions that promised a speedy repetition of the high water. The sky was hidden by murky gray clouds that hung far down toward the earth. So thick were they that no mist that blurred the hills and the windings of the faintest glimmer of the sun could peep through. A creek was in the air, and the east wind had a keen, biting touch that was more in harmony with November than July.
Some discussion ensued at first on the question of breaking camp under such circumstances, but it was finally decided in the affirmative.
"This place won't shelter us very well if a heavy rain comes on," said Ned. "The chances are that it won't rain before afternoon or night, so we had better make the most of what time we have by choosing a better spot."
The value of Ned's advice had been tested on many previous occasions, so preparations to start were hastily commenced. This was about eight o'clock in the morning, after breakfast had been eaten and the dishes cleared away.
Randy was the first one up that morning, and much to the mystification of his companions he had been working since daybreak in a thicket of young timber not far behind the camp. Just as the tent was being rolled up he made his appearance with a lurking smile on his face, and under his arm a bundle that resembled a red flannel seine wrapped tightly on its sticks.
"Hullo, Randy, what have you there?" queried Nugget.
"What is it?" exclaimed Clay, in a tone that implied some doubt as to whether he referred to Randy or the object under his arm.
But Randy was not disposed to be communicative just then.