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. "Hello! 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.
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