"Say, tell me who that stout gentleman is, will you?"
The little man hesitated before replying. "That's Judge Gibson, of Carlisle," he said finally in a very impressive tone. "You fellers may be glad you ain't sittin' afore him in the dock this minute—especially that chap down yonder. O, my! wouldn't you get salty sentences though!"
A loud summons from the judge started the little man off in a hurry, and the conversation came to an abrupt ending.
The boys soon joined Randy, and finding him in a decidedly bad temper, they made as little allusion as possible to what had occurred. It was evident from the way he shrugged his shoulders that the blows of the fishing pole had left a good deal of a sting.
Not knowing what might be expected of Judge Gibson, the boys concluded to be on the safe side, and as soon as Randy had changed his clothes they paddled away from the vicinity.
About one o'clock a halt was made for lunch, and as the air was disagreeably damp and cutting, Ned boiled a pot of coffee.
The cruise was resumed an hour later, and during the afternoon a close watch was kept for suitable camping places. The indications all presaged bad weather, and there was no doubt that rain would set in by morning—if not sooner.
About four o'clock a camping ground was discovered that met with general approval—a sheltered spot amid great pine trees on the right bank. In the rear was a steep hill, and a limestone spring was conveniently close.
The boys spent just one solid hour in arranging things to their satisfaction, for their stay was likely to be a protracted one, and they wanted everything snug and comfortable before the rain came.
The tent was staked with more than ordinary care, and then a ditch was dug around all four sides and the dirt thrown on the edges of the canvas. A stone fireplace was built between two trees and within easy reach of the tent door.