“Then it hasn’t started yet?” Varley asked.
“It’s starting—the warm spell sets it going. But ’tain’t a full flow yet. You can see we’ve got some trees tapped”—he pointed to a near-by part of the grove—“and if a freeze don’t come to check things, we’ll be in full swing a good deal quicker than I’d care to be. Somehow, I don’t like the looks of the weather, or the feel of it, for that matter.”
Varley was quite ready to agree with Mr. Grant on this score. The dismal day was growing more dismal still; the drizzle was heavier; the dense gray clouds seemed to hang lower. The other boys, to whom a sugar camp was an old story, were huddling in the lee of the house. Varley noticed that Poke, most sorrowful of face, was in low-toned talk with Step, who seemed rapidly to be becoming as melancholy as his chum. Then Sam joined the pair, and the whispered conversation went on, with no sign of rising spirits.
Varley was clever enough to make a shrewd guess at the situation. Doubtless, sooner or later, he would hear all about it, but just now the club was keeping its own counsel. So he remained near Mr. Grant until the latter was called into the house by his hired man, who seemed to be unable to find a big ladle, of which he announced himself in search.
Left alone, Paul took note that the Shark, who was peering at the lower ground about the “Island” and mumbling to himself in dissatisfied fashion, appeared to be on the point of starting on some small expedition of his own. Paul crossed to him.
“What’s up?” he inquired. “Looking for something?”
The Shark merely grunted.
“What is it?”
“The marker.”
“Eh?” Paul had not been especially impressed by the map or the talk about it.