He was so much
younger than the other half dozen that composed the party that his
joining was much discussed, but there were no two opinions about Bob's
paddling nor yet about his ability to pitch a tent, cast a fly, shoot
small game at long range, and, when you are far up North, on a canoe
cruise, and have to depend on the forest and river to supply your
dinner, you don't sneer at an enthusiastic fisherman or a good shot. So
one royal August day Bob found himself on the train with six University
graduates, bound for "up North," for a glorious three weeks' outing.
Their canoes, tents and duffle were all stored away in the express car
ahead. Their cares and their studies were packed away in the weeks left
behind, their hearts as merry, their clothes as hideous as a jolly crowd
of merry-makers could desire. It was a long, hot, dusty railway journey,
but at last the tiny Northern railway station hove in sight, the rasping
screech of the sawmill rivalled the shrill call of the locomotive, and
directly behind the little settlement stretched the smooth surface of
"Lake Nameless," ready and waiting to be ruffled by the dip of paddle
blades.
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