Part 30 (1/2)
It does not take long for seven practical campers to get their kit and canoes in shape to pitch canvas for the night, and just as the sun dropped behind a rim of dense fir forest, ”the Saucy Seven,” as the boys had christened themselves, lighted their first camp fire and hung their kettle for supper. The two tents were already up, white and gleaming against the lake line, the three cruising canoes were safely beached for the night, blankets were already spread over beds of hemlock boughs, and the goodly smell of frying bacon arose temptingly in the warm, still, twilight air. Seven hungry mouths took a long time to be satisfied, but the frying-pan and the tea-pot were empty at last, and the boys ready to turn in early, after their long journey and busy settling. The first night in camp is always a restless one. The flapping tent, the straining guy ropes, the strange wild sounds and scents seem to prop your eyelids open for hours. The night birds winging overhead, the far laugh of loons across the waters, the twigs creaking and snapping beneath the feet of little, timid animals, the soft singing of the pines above the canvas, these things get into one's blood, one's brain, and almost before you know it the night is gone, and a whole chorus of song arises with the coming of day. There is nothing in all the world more enjoyable than tumbling from your blankets, to unlace the ”flap” of the tent, to fling it wide and step out into the soft grey world before sunrise, to swallow whole breaths of fresh, sweet morning air; then to plunge into a still, cool lake, and drive sleep from the corners of your eyes, as the winking sun drives night from the forest. Then another enjoyable thing is to have Tom, d.i.c.k or Harry hustle about and get the kettle boiling and fish frying while you are yet plunging about like a frog, and by the time you have rushed ash.o.r.e, and into your shorts and sweater and ”wigwam” shoes, the aforesaid pleasant persons have breakfast ready, and you come around just in time to make away with vast bowls of coffee, and unlimited fish and toast.
This is all very well, if you have the whole lake and its outletting river all to yourselves, with no one to scare the fish and game, and none to trespa.s.s on your camp ground; but picture to yourselves the consternation that a.s.sailed the boys when, the following night, the train brought in another camping crowd, that trailed up the sh.o.r.e with a great deal of fuss, and pitched camp directly across the point from them--a crowd of at least ten men. No rollicking boys there, all big, full-grown men with beards and whiskers, with a dozen gun cases, stretcher camp beds, and some scarlet velvet rugs--actually _rugs_.
The boys just stood and stared, then sneered.
”Nice 'Saucy Seven' those chaps will make of our holiday,” groaned one of the grads. ”'Sorry Seven,' we'd better call ourselves, I say, and to-morrow I'm for moving, striking camp at daylight and getting away from that gang that camps with _rugs_.” The last word took on the expression of an article of actual disgrace. ”h.e.l.lo! They're running up the colors,” interrupted Bob. ”It's a Union Jack, all right. Perhaps they're not such rummies, after all.”
Then, after much peering and squinting, they made out that the biggest tent stretched directly at the base of the flagstaff, and contained the despised scarlet rugs, which the boys were still jeering at when they noticed a little canoe, singly manned, put out from the rocky ledge and make swiftly towards them. The Saucy Seven unbent sufficiently to all go in a body to the landing. Their minds were fully made up to invite the intruder to ”s.h.i.+nny on his own side,” and not come ”moseying”
around the camp, when the canoeist beached his bow and sprang lightly ash.o.r.e. He was a very handsome young man, clean shaven and merry-eyed, and, touching his cap lightly, he said in a tremendously English voice:
”Beg pardon, gentlemen, sorry to trouble you, but His Excellency, the Governor-General, presents his compliments, and would you kindly lend him a can of condensed milk? Our cook seems to have forgotten everything. We haven't a drop for our coffee.”
The Saucy Seven raised seven disgraceful-looking caps, but only one spoke. It was the biggest grad. ”Why, we're honored. We had no idea who it was.”
”Oh, that's all right,” answered the Englishman. ”You know His Excellency goes camping for a day or two every year, just for the fun and fish and things.”
”Fish? Does he like fish?” asked Bob. Then, without waiting for a reply, he disappeared, only to return with the can of condensed milk and three splendid four-pound ba.s.s he had landed for their own supper. He looked shyly at the young aide-de-camp, handing him the can, and said, ”Will you present our compliments to His Excellency, and ask him to accept these for supper?”
”Delighted, I'm sure,” said the officer. ”He's fond of ba.s.s. Thanks for the milk, gentlemen. Perhaps we can help you out some time.” And in another minute the canoe was skimming away towards the point, where the Union Jack hung idly against a background of firs, but just before the Englishman was out of hearing the big grad yelled, ”Tell the Governor-General that the fish were caught and sent by Bobbie.”
”All right,” came faintly across the distance, with a wave of the smart little cap, and a bright backward smile from the handsome Englishman.
The Saucy Seven looked at each other, then the big grad simply expressed things in one explosive ”Well!”
”No, I don't think we'll move to-morrow,” said one.
”Move from here!” said another.
”Well, I'm a frazzle,” added a third.
”The Governor-General of all Canada,” gasped another.
”And borrowing milk from us!” chimed in two more.
”No fish for supper,” said Bob, ”and my fault, too, but I'll get some for breakfast, or my name'll be Dennis.” And he did get fish for breakfast, which was evidently more than His Excellency did, for about sunset the following evening a guide came paddling over with a large, square envelope directed to
Mr. ”Bobbie.”
Inside was this note, written in a small, firm hand:
”Lord Dunbridge presents his compliments to Mr. 'Bobbie,' and thanks him for the enjoyable fish dinner tendered him last evening. And would Mr.
Bobbie kindly do him an additional favor? Would he come at six o'clock to-morrow morning to a.s.sist a poor fisherman who has had no luck to-day?”
That night Bob was a regular hero around the camp fire. The boys sang, ”He's a jolly good fellow,” and a dozen other gay choruses, while Bob looked to his tackle and bait, and gathered all the courage he could muster to meet the great man in the morning. He need not have trembled--it was no ordeal--for as he paddled up to the big camp a quiet-looking gentleman with an iron gray moustache and kindly, genial eyes, stepped down to the landing and held out his hand, and said, ”Good-morning, Bobbie. I hope we shall be friends. I have been most unlucky; not a fish yesterday. We'll have to do better than that, won't we?”
”Yes, sir--Yes, Your Excellency,” said Bob, slowly trying to get his nerves steady.
”I'm afraid my guides are very little good,” said Lord Dunbridge, as he carefully settled himself in the canoe. ”They both profess to know these waters, but they don't seem to be able to find any good fis.h.i.+ng pools.”
”I can do better than that,” ventured Bob. ”I have been around these lakes every summer that I can remember. If, Your Excellency, you don't mind, we'll paddle across to the outletting river. It's full of rapids, and below them we'll find fish.”