Babies were expected to be present on such occasions, and if present they were in duty bound to make themselves heard—that was a matter of course; and which particular baby it was exercising its lungs at the present moment was, in his opinion, too insignificant a matter to interest any one.

The interruption seemed, however, to have wrought havoc once more with Marcellus, for when the play was resumed he began to falter and hesitate, and like all people who hesitate, was speedily lost.

After he had boldly bidden Horatio to question the terror-inspiring visitor, and had declared “it was offended,” he seemed to lose heart.

“’Tis gone, and will not—not—will not—not— ’Tis gone and will—will. ’Tis will and not gone. No,” he added abruptly, apparently as much to the surprise of the Ghost himself, who could be seen peering from behind the curtain, as to that of his audience, “No, ’tisn’t ‘’tis will,’ it’s ‘’tis gone.’ ’Tis gone and—and—and—”

Poor Marcellus gazed about him in despair, as if he was looking for help; but no help came, except from the side of the platform, where the prompter tried in a loud whisper to aid the desperate player.

Horatio, to help his comrade, went back to the last line he had spoken, and repeated, “Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak!”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, but can’t,” replied Marcellus, casting Shakespeare and discretion aside at the same time.

The words were too much for our boys, who, up to this time, had been striving desperately to remain quiet. Jock had stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth, but the explosive force of the last despairing speech of Marcellus had proved too much for him to bear, and a prolonged squeal came from his lips which forced even the handkerchief from its place.

“He-e-e-e-e-e!” he cried, and in a moment his companions were all clinging to the back of the seat in front of them and shaking with laughter. But few others in the audience seemed to be similarly affected, and Ethan turned and gave them a look which greatly aided in restoring their composure.

Marcellus was thoroughly angry now, however, and glared down upon the offending Jock as if he were minded to add other words which Shakespeare might perhaps have used, but which he certainly had not incorporated in the tragedy.

In a moment he rushed from the stage, seized the book from the hands of the prompter, and, returning to his place, read his part as the play was resumed. Then for a time all went well, and the eager boys found themselves looking forward to the time when “Hamlick” himself should appear.

True to his part, in the second scene the hero appeared, and our boys were soon all listening attentively. Tom’s first words were uttered in a voice that trembled, but he soon was master of himself and was giving his mother that sage counsel which has done so much to make both her and him remembered.

The king stalked about the stage with a crown that fairly glittered with jewels upon his head, and as for the queen, her gorgeous train was sadly in the way of Polonius and Laertes, and even “Hamlick” himself once trod upon it and received a look from her which well might have caused him to pause in his undutiful language.

Marcellus, too, returned; but this time he was equipped with a book, as well as with a sword, and though he followed the lines with his finger as he read, and seldom glanced at his companions, and once his words, “my good lord,” were evidently misunderstood by his audience, still no further interruptions came until the Ghost once more joined the group.

Then a fresh trouble arose. Just at the most impressive part, a long-drawn-out sigh seemed to come from Ethan, who had remained quietly in his seat at the end of the bench.

Marcellus had just been strongly warning Hamlet not to go with the untimely visitor, and Horatio had added, “No, by no means,” when the sigh from Ethan’s corner rose again, louder, longer, and more intense. All in the audience could hear it, and as it came once more our four boys glanced quickly at the boatman.

His head was thrown back against the wall, his eyes were closed, and his mouth was wide open. It was evident that Ethan was sleeping.

“It will not speak; then I will follow it,” Hamlet was just remarking on the stage.

“O-o-o-h-h-h!” responded Ethan, in something more pronounced now than a sigh. His voice trembled and quavered, and seemed to gather force as on it went.

“Wake him up, Jock,” whispered Ben.

“Stick a pin in him. He’ll spoil the play,” whispered Bert.

Jock turned to shake the boatman lightly and strive to restore him by gentle means, but his efforts were not required; for one of the small boys seated directly behind Ethan acted promptly, and at once produced results as startling as they were unexpected.

CHAPTER XXIX.
AFTER THE TRAGEDY.

The mischievous lad had been one of those who had been regaling themselves during the performance with peanuts, and the mark which Ethan presented was more than his youthful spirit could resist. Leaning forward, he quickly dropped into the wide-open mouth of the slumbering boatman one of his choicest bits, and before Jock could touch the man, the explosion came.

Ethan was instantly awake, and coughing, almost strangling, stared wildly about him. For a moment even the somewhat pessimistic views to which Hamlick was giving utterance on the stage were ignored by the audience, and the noisy boatman was the observed of all observers.

His efforts were so violent that either strangulation or relief was bound to result, and as the latter came, Ethan turned sharply and looked behind him. The demure face of the lad who had been the means of his somewhat sudden awakening did not even glance at him, and after a brief pause Ethan solemnly resumed his seat, and Hamlick proceeded with his misty surmisings.

Perhaps the play by this time had gained full headway, and nothing could interfere with its progress. At all events, no further interruptions occurred, save those of a minor character, and after a time the end came. The audience then solemnly filed out from the room, and soon few were left besides our party and those who had taken part in the play.

In spite of the ludicrous events which had interfered somewhat with the solemnity of the occasion, the boys were impressed with the amount of study which Tom and some of his companions had bestowed upon the parts assigned them. As Hamlick himself came forth from behind the scenes he was warmly greeted by Jock, and complimented upon the success he had attained.

“And do you really think we did it all right?” inquired Tom, eagerly.

“We have had a most enjoyable evening,” replied Bob, soberly. “I can’t understand yet why it was that you selected such a play for a popular audience.”

“That was the schoolmaster’s doings,” said Tom. “I thought myself it was almost too difficult a piece; but he told us to get something good while we were at it, and something it would pay us to remember, so we chose ‘Hamlet.’ We give something almost every year, you see. Last year we gave the trial scene from ‘Pickwick Papers,’ but the folks here didn’t seem to see the fun in it. They took it all in sober earnest, and never laughed from the beginning to the end. So this year we thought we’d try something in the tragedy line.”

“Where do you get all the books you read, Tom?” inquired Bob.

“Some of them are in our school library and some the minister lends to us. We don’t have very much besides history. I’m grateful to you,” he added, turning to Bert as he spoke, “for hearing me speak my part up in the camp. It did me a sight of good.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Bert, hurriedly.

Tom’s reading had become a serious matter with our boys. His attainments had been so unlooked for, and, as far as the solid work was concerned, he had done so much more than they, that no one was inclined to belittle him now, no matter how much the young boatman’s lack of familiarity with the manners and customs of “city folks” had impressed them upon their arrival at the camp.

“Heow was it? Pooty fair, I judge,” said Ethan, who now approached the group, asking and answering his own question at the same time.

“The young people are to be congratulated upon the serious study they have given Shakespeare’s masterpiece,” said Mr. Clarke, before any of the boys could reply.

“Glad to hear ye say it,” responded Ethan, who, in spite of his apparent contempt for Tom’s studies, was nevertheless interested far more deeply than he cared to show. “I don’ know much abeout sech things myself,” he continued. “I never read one o’ Dickens’s plays, nor Shakespeare’s neither, for that matter. I had to work fur a livin’ in my young days; but Tom here, he has lots o’ time, and he jist keeps his nose in a book pretty much all winter. What d’ye think o’ it? Will it do him any harm?” he inquired of Mr. Clarke, somewhat anxiously.

“Not a bit, not a bit,” replied Mr. Clarke, cordially. “In fact, I think I know of some young people who might profit by his example.”

“I never did think there was sech a sight o’ difference between city folks and country folks. Neow ye’ve seen this same performance in the place where you live, I take it?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Clarke.

“An’ ye really think the young folks here hev done it abeout as well as the folks down to New York, do ye?”

“There were differences, of course. You must expect that.”

“Of course; of course,” said Ethan, delightedly. “Mebbe ye’d like to go over to Mis’ Brown’s. The young folks have gone there. They’re to have some ice cream, I b’lieve. ’Twon’t cost ye much, fur it’s only eight cents a dish, two fur fifteen.”

As it was not late, the invitation was eagerly accepted, an added zest being given when it was learned that the profits from the sale of the cream were to be added to those of the play, and that all were to be expended for the improvement of the walks in the little hamlet. The party accordingly made their way down the rough stairway and along the street, Tom having previously left them, and soon arrived at “Mis’ Brown’s,” or the “Widow Brown’s,” as she was familiarly called by her neighbors.

Her establishment was found to be a unique one. A small “store” was in the front of the building, and on the few shelves were seen jars containing some toothsome, though apparently venerable, sticks of candy. Slate pencils, a few forlorn articles of “fancy work,” spools of thread and such like necessities were the other parts of her stock in trade, but the sounds of revelry which came from an inner room left no doubt in the minds of the visitors as to the place where the ice cream was to be had, or as to the occupation which was then going on at the time.

Ethan boldly led the way, and as the door was opened, two long tables were seen, upon which were dishes of the famous article for which our party had come, and upon which the “young folks” already there were feasting. The unexpected entrance brought a solemn hush upon the room, and one young fellow who was standing near the head of one of the tables suddenly sank into his seat again.

“That’s Tim Wynn,” whispered Ethan. “He’s been cuttin’ up for the young folks, I s’pose. He’s awfully funny, an’ they all like to have him ’round.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any place for us,” suggested Mr. Clarke. “Perhaps we’d better not stop to-night.”

“I’ll fix ye out in a minit,” said Ethan, hastily. “Here’s the widow, now. Mis’ Brown, can’t ye find a place for these folks? They want some o’ yer ice cream, an’ every one counts neow. Mebbe they’ll buy enough to get another plank or two for the walks.”

The hint was not to be lost, and speedily another table was prepared by placing two planks across some “horses,” and as soon as chairs had been brought, the party all seated themselves and were speedily served, Ethan himself taking one of the chairs upon Mr. Clarke’s invitation.

Miss Bessie whispered to Ben, who was seated beside her, that “it wasn’t ice cream at all, it was only frozen corn starch;” but whatever the name may have been, the dishes were speedily cleared, Ethan’s disappearing the most rapidly of all, as with heaping spoonfuls he swallowed the treat, apparently unmindful of its chilling temperature.

“I guess ye don’t get nothin’ better’n that deown to New York,” he remarked with satisfaction, as he glanced up at Mr. Clarke.

“We never have anything just like this,” replied Mr. Clarke, kindly. “Have some more, Ethan?”

“Thank ye, sir. I don’ mind if I do, if it’s all the same to you. Here!” he suddenly added, as if he had been struck with a sudden thought, “there’s some lemingade, too. It’s only three cents a cup, and I’ll stand treat for the crowd.”

“Permit me,” said Mr. Clarke, quickly; and “lemingade” was at once added to the replenished dishes.

“Your young people are to be congratulated, Ethan,” said Mr. Clarke, when all at last arose from the table. “You have quite a good-sized fund for your village improvements. Have you any idea how much they have made?”

“I don’t s’pose they can tell jest yet. Prob’ly fifteen or twenty dollars.”

“You can add this to the sum, with my compliments, then,” said Mr. Clarke, as he slipped a ten dollar bill into the astonished boatman’s hand.

Almost too surprised by the gift to express his thanks, Ethan responded to their “good night,” and the party at once departed for their yacht.

It was a glorious summer evening they discovered when the boat moved out from the dock and began to speed over the silent river. In the moonlight the rushing waters glimmered like silver, and the low-lying shores cast shadows which were reflected almost as in the light of day. The silent stars twinkled in the clear heavens, and the air of eternal peace seemed to rest over all.

The young people were enjoying themselves too keenly to be silent long even amidst such surroundings, and as the experiences of the evening were recounted, in every way so novel and different from anything they had ever seen before, their laughter rang out over the great river, and seemed to be caught up and sent flying by the very rocks and shores which they passed.

At last Miss Bessie started a song: “And every little wave has his night-cap on,” and for a time all other things were forgotten; while Mr. and Mrs. Clarke joined in the spirit of the frolic as if they, too, were as young as their young companions.

Altogether the evening had been such an enjoyable one that it was almost with a feeling of disappointment that the boys at last perceived in the distance the white tents on Pine Tree Island. The songs had ceased now, and Bob said:—

“Mr. Clarke, I meant to have asked you to tell us the rest of that story about the pirate of the St. Lawrence.”

“Who? Bill Johnston?” asked Mr. Clarke.

“Yes, I believe that was his name.”

“Oh, well, that story will keep until next time.”

“Yes, but the summer is almost gone now, and there won’t be many ‘next times.’ We’ll be going home soon.”

“Not for some weeks yet, I trust. September is the most glorious of all the months on the river. When the leaves begin to turn, and the nights are so cool that you need a fire on the hearth in your cottage, and the air is so bracing that it is a delight just to breathe it, and the ducks begin to come, and you can vary your fishing with gunning, why, that’s the best time of all the year. My nearest neighbors have even stayed here all winter, once or twice.”

“It must be a wild sight here then,” suggested Jock. “When the ice is so thick you can drive over it with a horse and sleigh, and the wind sweeps down the river at the rate of sixty miles an hour, it must be great fun to be here, and feel that you’ve got a good warm snug place, and can still see it all.”

“Better to see it than feel it, I fancy,” laughed Mr. Clarke. “I enjoy the river as much as any one, but I know where to draw the line. Still, if I could bottle up some of the September air and take it back to town with me, to use when occasion demanded, I should not object.”

Miss Bessie and Ben had been taking no part in the general conversation, apparently being much more interested in one of their own.

“I want to ask you a question,” she had said to Ben, who was seated next to her.

“Say on,” responded Ben. “I’m all ears.”

“Not quite all,” replied the girl, glancing at Ben’s long form as she spoke. “But what I want to know is whether you are really going to enter the canoe races next week?”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Oh, well, I’ll have to tell you, you have such good reasons for asking. No one in the world, or at least in the camp, knows it; but I am going in.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Oh, of falling into the water, or being beaten, or I don’t know what.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Ben, sitting suddenly erect. “Now one good turn is said to deserve another, so as you’ve had a turn at me, I’ll take mine now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going into the races?”

“Yes,” replied Miss Bessie, after a brief hesitation. “That is, if my father is willing; but I don’t want you to tell any one about it, either.”

“Madam, I shall be silent. Do you recall the words of the immortal ‘Hamlick’ to-night on that subject?”

“No. What were they?”

“Agreed,” responded Miss Bessie. “I’ll not tell about you, and you’re not to tell about me.”

“Oh you’ll not tell,” retorted Ben. “I never saw a girl yet who would do that.”

The conversation was suddenly interrupted, for the yacht was now approaching the dock. To the surprise of the boys, they discovered that some one was in the camp, and hastily bidding their friends good night, they all turned and ran swiftly toward the tents.

CHAPTER XXX.
BEN’S DISCOVERY.

It is doubtful whether Pine Tree Island, since the days when the red men had dwelt upon its shores, had heard such a shout as went up from our boys when they discovered that the visitor was Jock’s father. When the lad learned that his mother was at Alexandria Bay, and that she and his father had come from New York that very day, nothing would satisfy him but to return to the hotel.

Before they departed, Jock’s father explained that he had come over to the camp in the early evening with a boatman, but when he discovered that no one was there, he had decided to remain until they returned. As it was now after ten o’clock, he had begun to feel somewhat uneasy; but the fact that all were gone, and that everything about the camp seemed to be in good order, had led him to believe that they could be in no danger, at all events, and so he had waited until the time when his patience had been amply rewarded.

After the messages from the other homes had been delivered, and Mr. Cope had satisfied himself that all were well, he said, “I think we’d better go back to the hotel now, my boy. Your mother will be uneasy about me, to say nothing of you.”

“Do you think it will be safe for Jock to go?” inquired Bob, soberly.

“Safe? Why, yes. Why shouldn’t it be safe?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We’ve been living here in primitive style, you know, and whether Jock will remember how to behave is a question.”

“It’s time he reviewed his lessons, then,” was the reply. “Good night, boys,” he added, as he started toward the dock.

The campers followed Jock and his father to the dock, and as they were about to put off, Bob called out, “I say, Jock, don’t forget to use your fork when you go into the dining room to-morrow.”

“I’ll try not to,” promised Jock.

“And if I’m not mistaken they have napkins there, too.”

“Good night, fellows. I’ll see you in the morning,” called Jock; and the skiff soon disappeared in the darkness.

Few words were spoken by the remaining campers that night as they prepared for bed. Perhaps the presence of Jock’s father, and the eagerness of their friend to see his mother, may have produced similar longings in their own hearts; but if it was so, no one referred to them, and soon the great pile of logs was sending its ruddy glow over the shadows of the silent river, and the sounds which came from the tent indicated that any possible feeling of homesickness had at least been forgotten for the time.

When Bert awoke early in the following morning, he speedily discovered that he was alone in the tent. As he dressed himself hastily, and ran forth toward the bank of the river, he discovered the long form of Ben paddling in his canoe not far away, but Bob was nowhere to be seen.

It was such an unusual occurrence for Bob to be awake so early in the morning that the sturdy Bert was at a loss to account for his absence. As a rule, Bob was the last to appear for breakfast, and not infrequently a dash of cold water had been required to make him fully aware of the hour; and now to find him gone was, to say the least, surprising.

Ethan and Tom arrived, but still Bob did not appear. Ben came in from his daily task, but he, too, had not seen the missing Bob, and declared that he had left him sleeping in the tent when he himself had departed. The absence certainly was strange, and the boys were just beginning to feel uneasy as to the missing boy’s whereabouts, when the lad in question was seen approaching the camp. But he was coming from among the trees, and his eager friends hailed him with the question,—

“Where have you been, Bob?”

“Out taking a peep at the rising sun.”

“You’ve been taking more than that,” exclaimed Ben, quickly, as he perceived that Bob’s garments were all dripping wet. “You’ve been in the water.”

“The early dew is heavy here,” replied Bob, evasively, as he turned to the tent to change his clothing.

It was evident that Bob did not intend to disclose the purpose of his early rising, and Ben’s suspicions were at once aroused. He concluded that his friend was practising for the race in which he himself was to enter. He did not refer to his surmise, however, and in a few minutes Bob came forth and took his seat at the table with his friends.

Soon after breakfast, Jock, accompanied by his father and mother, returned to the camp, and the greeting which Mr. Cope gave his old schoolfellow, Ethan, was one which warmed the heart of that worthy boatman.

“I thought mebbe ye’d forgotten yer old friends since ye’ve got so rich,” said Ethan, soberly.

“Forgotten them? Why, man, they’re the best part of my life. I’ve a painting of the old red schoolhouse hanging in my dining room, and I never see it without thinking of the boys and girls who were there years ago, and the good times we used to have.”

“Got a pictur of it? Ye don’t say so!” exclaimed Ethan, in surprise. “Well, I never thought nobody’d want a pictur o’ that place. It’s most gone to rack an’ ruin now. I’m afeard we’ll have to fix it up purty quick or it’ll fall down o’ itself.”

“That’s too bad; I should think the district would keep it in repair.”

“The deestrict hain’t got no money. The only folks hereabouts what has any money are mostly those who’ve gone off deown to New York. Seems as if ’most any fool could make money deown there. The’ say as how Homer Perkins’s boy has gone deown there, an’ is a-gettin’ a dollar an’ a half a day the whole year through, an’ all he has to do is to drive a hoss car.”

Mr. Cope laughed as he replied, “I’m telling you the truth, Ethan, when I say I never worked so hard in my life as I do now. I used to pick up stones on the old farm, and haul and chop wood, and get up at four o’clock in the morning and milk eight or ten cows before breakfast, and then carry the milk to the factory, and that was before the day’s work was supposed to have begun; but all that’s as nothing compared with the way I have to work now.”

Ethan was evidently incredulous, and said, “What time do ye get up in the mornin’ now?”

“About eight o’clock.”

“And I s’pose ye don’t get down to yer store till abeout nine?”

“I usually go down to the office about that time.”

“An’ when do ye shut up?”

“Anywhere from half-past four to six.”

“An’ ye call that workin’ harder ’n ye did on the old stone hill farm, do ye?”

“Yes, a good deal harder. It’s true I used to get tired and go to bed some nights feeling as if every bone in my body ached, but I would go to sleep right away and forget it all, and next morning I’d be all ready for another day. Now I have to carry my load day and night, and there is no escape. I have hundreds, yes, thousands, of men dependent on me. When hard times come, and it sometimes seems to me that they come pretty often, I carry a good many of these men through just for the sake of their families, and when good times come they seem to forget all about it, and some of them are always ready to make trouble. There are times, Ethan, when it seems to me my load is heavier than I can bear. I almost never have a day off, and sometimes I long to return to the old farm, and am hungry for its peace and quiet.”

“I guess there ain’t nuthin’ to hinder ye from comin’ back if ye want to,” grunted Ethan. “The old place is for sale, an ’twon’t cost over twenty-five or thirty dollars an acre. Ye can stand that much, can’t ye? Yer boy here says he guesses ye’re worth more ’n five thousand dollars.”

Mr. Cope’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he glanced reprovingly at Jock; but evidently wishing to change the subject, he said, “I fancy, Ethan, that most of the boys and girls who used to go to school with us are gone now.”

“Pretty much.”

“What’s ever become of Hiram Munsell? Hi Munsell we called him.”

“Oh, he went out to the state o’ Milwaukee. He’s got rich too, they say.”

“Went where?”

“The state o’ Milwaukee. He’s a policeman an’ gets a thousan’ dollars a year, or leastwise that’s what the report is. You know as much as I do about whether it’s true or not. I hev my doubts, myself. Hi always was one to stretch it pooty good, as you may recommember yerself.”

Mr. Cope glanced again reprovingly at the boys, who for some strange reason appeared to be highly delighted at the reference to the “state” to which the wealthy Hi had gone, and said quickly,—

“Well, Ethan, I want to talk over old times with you some more, and I want to go over to the old schoolhouse, too; but I’m to have only a day or two here, and I fancy the boys are more interested in my putting that to good use than they are in our reminiscences, so if you’re agreed, we’ll try the sport for a time. Can you take us fishing now?”

Ethan responded that he could, and when the two skiffs were made ready it was discovered that Bob was not to go with them. Ben said nothing, though his suspicions were at once aroused, and at first he, too, was inclined to remain in camp; but Jock’s evident disappointment was so marked that he hastily recalled his words, and said that he would go, making one proviso, that he should be permitted to take his canoe with him.

Mrs. Cope was to remain in the camp, declaring that she wished to look after some of the belongings of the boys, which she said were in a “sad state,” though just what she meant by the expression she did not explain, and that she was not in the least afraid of being lonesome. The party soon set forth in the skiffs, from one of which Ben’s ever present canoe was towed, and Ethan directed the way to a spot where none of them had as yet been. Mr. Cope apparently was most enthusiastic of all. Whatever may have been his inability to cast aside his pressing problems when he was at home, here certainly they were not to be found, and he entered into the sport with all the zest of the boys themselves.

Their former successes in no way seemed to interfere with the eagerness of the campers in the present experience, and when at last Ethan and Tom rowed ashore to prepare dinner, they had all had a degree of success which corresponded with their most ardent desires.

After dinner the sport was resumed, but about the middle of the afternoon Ethan rowed his skiff close in to the other, and Mr. Cope called out: “Boys, we’ve decided to land over here and go up to the old schoolhouse, which isn’t more than a mile and a half from the shore. Jock wants to go; and if you would like to go too, we should be glad to have you. What do you say?”

Ben looked at Bert a moment, and then said, “Thank you, Mr. Cope, Bert would like to go and so should I, but I ought to go back to the camp.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” inquired Mr. Cope, quickly.

“There isn’t anything wrong, only I’ve something I ought to do. I was just thinking that I would take my canoe and go back, and leave you all here anyway. I didn’t want to break up your sport.”

“He wants to write a letter, I guess,” said Jock. “Well, Bert, you come along, and let Ben go back if he wants to.”

The proposal was agreed to, and Tom was to wait on the shore and guard the skiff while his companions were gone to visit the scene of Mr. Cope’s and Ethan’s earlier days. Ben did not wait, but hoisting his little sail began to speed over the river in the direction of Pine Tree Island.

What the urgent duty was which had induced him to depart from his companions became apparent when he approached within a half mile of the camp. He then lowered his sail and carefully scanned the river before him.

Apparently satisfied with the inspection, he took his paddle and began to send the light canoe swiftly over the water, but instead of making his way to the dock he paddled around to the opposite side of the island.

There he landed, and lifting his canoe, bore it up the shore and carefully concealed it among the bushes. Satisfied that he had not been seen, he cautiously made his way toward the shore of a sheltered bay not far away. As soon as he had arrived at a place from which the waters of the bay could be seen, he halted for a moment and peered cautiously about him.

Evidently not satisfied with what he saw, he began to advance again, stepping carefully from tree to tree, and at last arrived at a sheltered spot from which he could see both the shore and bay. Instantly he was deeply interested in something he there discovered, for he peered farther out from behind the tree, and watched Bob, who now could be seen near the shore.

“The rascal! He thought he’d fool us all,” muttered Ben, as he watched his friend, who plainly was unaware that his actions were observed.

“What’s that he’s doing?” he suddenly added. “If that doesn’t beat anything I ever saw before!”

So interested was Ben that he remained in the secluded spot for more than an hour, watching the movements of Bob, who was in sight all the time. Occasionally the watching Ben almost laughed aloud, and frequently uttered exclamations expressive of his astonishment or pleasure,—any one who might have heard him could hardly have told which,—but at last he retraced his way through the woods to the spot where he had left his canoe.

Speedily embarking, he paddled back around the island, and soon afterward approached the dock; and the first person he discerned there was Bob himself, seated on the edge and lazily swinging his feet out over the water.

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE RACES.

Ben did not refer to his discovery, and after he had explained the reasons why he had returned alone to the camp he joined Mrs. Cope, who was seated in a camp-chair on the high bluff, and delightedly watching the constantly shifting scene which the great river presented. The pleasure Jock’s mother felt in the marked improvement in her son’s appearance was certainly shared by his two friends, and Bob demurely remarked that he even had hopes that Ben and Bert would also “improve,” a wish which Ben laughingly declared was destined to be blighted.

As the shadows of evening began to appear, the return of the absent members of the party at once drew the attention of all to them, and while Ethan and Tom prepared supper, Mr. Cope described his visit to the old schoolhouse, and the enjoyment he had experienced in revisiting the scenes of his boyhood. His wife declared that she believed he had regained some of his boyish spirits too, for it had been long since she had seen him so animated and enthusiastic.

Just as Ethan announced that supper was ready, a skiff was seen approaching the dock, and a messenger-boy advanced with several telegrams, which Mr. Cope had left word at the hotel should be forwarded to the camp.

As Mr. Cope tore open the yellow envelopes, Ethan curiously observed his old-time friend, and when the telegrams had been read, said,—

“I hope ye haven’t had any bad news, Jock?”

Mr. Cope laughed as he replied, “Rather bad for me, I fear. I shall have to return to New York to-night. You see, Ethan, I can’t have more than a day off. I almost envy you your freedom.”

“Did they send ye word in the telegrams?” inquired the boatman.

“Yes. They are about important business engagements.”

“Bus’ness!” exclaimed Ethan. “I didn’t s’pose any one ever telegraphed jist about bus’ness. I thought nobody ever telegraphed unless somebody was dead. Hi Perkins once telegraphed to his ma when he thought he was goin’ to die with the pewmony; but it costs four shillin’ for ten words, I’m told. Must be mighty important business what would make anybody send ye five or six on ’em.”

“It is important; so important that I shall have to go back to the Bay and start for home to-night. I’m sorry, too. But then, if a business man doesn’t have very much outside pleasure in life, his wife and children can have it, and he must take his in knowing that.”

Soon after supper Mr. Cope bade good-by to the boatman and boys, and with Mrs. Cope and Jock departed for Alexandria Bay. Jock was to remain at the hotel for the night, but was to return to the camp in the morning, though his mother was to stay at the hotel until the boys should be ready to break camp and go home with her.

Apparently Jock’s mother enjoyed the experience of the days which followed as much as did the boys themselves. Every day she was rowed over to Pine Tree Island, and sometimes the boys were persuaded to return with her for a dinner at the hotel, or to be present of an evening when something of special interest was occurring in the parlors.

Her friends, the Clarkes, also did much to add to the pleasure, for with their yacht they made various trips among the islands, or planned for picnics which were a never failing source of delight to all.

At last came the great day of the canoe races, and as it had been arranged that all the friends should go on Mr. Clarke’s yacht to the place selected, and take a position on the river from which the races could be seen from beginning to end, the occasion had been looked forward to with great anticipations.

When the happy party stopped at the dock for Mrs. Cope and the boys, the greetings were unusually enthusiastic, for a more perfect day had not been seen since the campers had come to Pine Tree Island.

A few masses of silver clouds could be seen in the sky, but the sun was shining clear and strong. A gentle breeze ruffled the surface of the river, and the air was delightfully cool and bracing. Life was indeed worth living now, and as the light-hearted members of the party assembled on board the yacht, their laughter and joyous expressions seemed all a part of the day.

When Ben quietly picked up his canoe and placed that too on board, a shout greeted him; but as all already knew that he was determined to enter the contest, for he previously had entered his name, no one was surprised; but when, a moment later, Bob came, bringing with him a dress-suit case, evidently heavily laden, a fresh shout of surprise was given him.

“Oh, I knew Ben would fall into the water,” he declared, “so I have brought a change of clothing for him. I’m very tender-hearted. It’s my nature, though, and I can’t help it, so you needn’t bestow any praise on me.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if you needed a change yourself,” rejoined Ben, “before you’ve finished your race.”

“Whom are you talking about?” demanded Bob, in surprise. “I haven’t had any time to practise. I’ve been too busy.”

“I know all about your busy-ness,” retorted Ben, sharply.

Bob glanced up quickly, but Ben was looking out over the river now, and it was impossible to catch his eye. The yacht was free from the dock by this time, and was speeding swiftly down the river. For a time, apparently, all other things were forgotten in the joy of the morning. Other parties could be seen on the river, and it was evident that they too had started for the same destination, and as the voyage continued, the number of the boats steadily increased. Canoes, skiffs, steam-yachts, launches, sailboats, all were there, some draped with bright colors, all displaying flags, and every one carrying eager-hearted spectators who were acting as if life never had known a care or sorrow.

At last our party arrived at the place where the races were to be held, and bright-colored buoys, indicative of the course, could be seen on the water. Patrol boats kept the course free, and Mr. Clarke soon selected a favorable place and his yacht was anchored.

Ben now prepared to take his canoe and start for the head of the course, where all those who were to participate were to assemble. As he lowered the canoe into the water, Bob approached him, and said soberly,—

“I think I’ll go with you, Ben. I’ve got your clothes here, and you’ll need some one to look after you. I’m the kind-hearted friend to do that very thing.”

“I was expecting you to say that,” replied Ben. “I was wondering why you didn’t speak up before. Where’s your craft, Bob?”

“My craft! Why, I haven’t any here, and you know it;” but a peculiar twinkle in Ben’s eye caused him to approach, and a whispered conversation at once followed.

No one of the others could hear what was said, but the result was apparent when Ben consented to his friend’s going with him, and in a brief time both boys were in the canoe, and Ben was ready to push off.

“You’ll not forget that we have some luncheon on board, boys,” called Miss Bessie. “You’ll surely be back in time to have some of that.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” laughed Ben. “I never knew Bob to be late for anything of that kind. I trust you have enough; for he’ll be hungry, I can promise you.”

A cheer followed the boys as Ben dipped his paddle in the water, and the canoe darted forward under his powerful strokes. His long form was not particularly graceful, but the speed of his canoe promised well, and Jock turned to the others and said,—

“I shouldn’t be surprised if Ben did get a place in the finals to-day. He’s improved wonderfully. The way he has kept at it is a lesson for us all. I wish he might win. I wonder what Bob really went with him for? Do you know I half suspect he’s got a scheme of some kind of his own.”

No one replied, for the sound of a pistol was now heard, and the first of the races was begun. It was a contest between cat-boats, and as the beautiful little crafts swept into sight and dipped low before the strong and favoring breeze, the shrill whistles of the steam-yachts, the waving of handkerchiefs, and the shouts of the people welcomed them.

As no one in our party was acquainted with any of the participants in this race, their interest naturally was not as keen as it was to be in some of the contests which were to follow, but they nevertheless were enthusiastic observers of the manœuvres of the skilfully handled boats. On they came, keeping well in line, their white sails and whiter sides glistening in the sunlight, and presenting a wondrously beautiful spectacle as they swept down the river.

As Mr. Clarke now discovered that most of the yachts were not anchored, but were free to follow the contestants outside the buoys, he, too, took his anchor on board and steamed down the river so that they could watch the boats all the way. The shores of the islands were lined with interested spectators, and the waving of bunting, and the cheers of the people, as the fleet boats approached, redoubled.

At last the stake was turned, and the boats started on the home stretch. They were not bunched as they had been, but three had gained over their rivals, and, well together, were tacking and striving each to gain an advantage over the others. It could be seen now that one was more skilfully handled than the other two, and soon it was distinctly gaining upon both. On and on they came, and finally the Thistle, bending gracefully before the breeze, swept first across the line, the men on board swinging their caps and shouting in their delight, while the screams of the whistles and the cheers of the spectators sounded shrilly in response. It certainly was a very inspiring sight, and the party on board Mr. Clarke’s yacht, though they were strangers to the winners, were cheering as lustily in their delight as if it had been one of their own company who had secured the first prize.

A race between canoes equipped with double bat-winged sails followed, and the stirring scene was again enacted. The whistles blew and banners were waved, and the winning boat was as lustily cheered as the successful one in the first contest had been.

Then followed a contest between canoes with a single bat-wing sail, and once more the interest of the spectators voiced itself in the same expressive manner which had been used before.

The excitement on the yacht very markedly increased when it was learned that the next race was to be between canoes with one paddler in each.

In the row of beautiful little canoes which took their places in line, Ben’s long form could be easily distinguished. As the party hailed his appearance with a cheer, Ben turned and discovered them, and while striving to wave his cap in response, almost destroyed his balance, and was very nearly thrown into the river.

There was no disposition among his friends to laugh now, and the girls uttered a little cry of dismay at the threatened mishap; but as Ben speedily regained his balance, they all became silent as they watched him intently. His long arms were bare, and his bright red sweater was to be easily distinguished in the line. In a moment the pistol sounded, and the racers were off.

There were seven contestants, and their paddles struck the water together. For a few minutes the line was almost unbroken; then it could be seen that three or four were pulling ahead of their rivals, and among the number was Ben. Faster and faster swept the frail little barks, and the interest of the spectators was evidently much keener than it had been in the other contests. The forms of the paddlers seemed to move like clock-work. The paddles were dipped rapidly and steadily, and the race between the leaders was very close. Slowly Ben gained upon his nearest rival and passed him, and then, with longer, swifter strokes, strove to gain upon the two who were still in advance of him.

Inch by inch, foot by foot, the distance decreased. Soon only about twenty yards remained between him and the end. Once more the determined boy bent to his task. His body swayed back and forth, the paddle was driven deeper into the water, and the light canoe seemed to gain increased speed. People were cheering wildly all about him, and a cloud of banners seemed to be waving on every side.

Again Ben responded, and was striving to use all his remaining power. He was not directly behind his competitors, being several yards to their left, and now he was not more than two feet in their rear. If only the course were a little longer, he thought, he would surely win; but shutting his teeth firmly together, he doggedly resolved to do his best. His eyes were almost closed, and his breath was coming in gasps.

Suddenly there was a moment of intense silence, as the shouting abruptly ceased, but Ben was oblivious of it all. In a moment, however, the shouting redoubled, there was a shrill screech of the whistles, and Ben knew that he was across the line and alone.

As he turned about he discovered that his competitors had met with a mishap, and that one, in his zeal, had paddled directly into the other, and both canoes had been capsized in the collision. Their misfortune had left Ben the winner.

The yacht speedily approached, and as the girls waved their handkerchiefs and his friends called out their approval, Mr. Clarke assisted him to come on board.

“I can congratulate you on winning the race,” said Mr. Clarke, cordially.

“Oh, I haven’t won it,” replied Ben, his flushed face beaming with pleasure. “That’s only the preliminary. The finals are to come off this afternoon.”

Somewhat disappointed, the party was headed up the river again, and soon approached the starting-place. They all laughed when they learned that a tub race was now to take place, and the astonishment of all except Ben was great when they discovered that one of the contestants was none other than their missing friend, Bob.

CHAPTER XXXII.
CONCLUSION.

A tub race was a decided novelty to all the members of our party except the young ladies, who had seen one in the preceding summer, but there were special reasons now why they were as interested as their friends in the contest which was to take place. There were tubs large and small, some new and some evidently having seen hard service, and the paddles were of various sizes and ages. There were at least fifteen of the contestants, and Bob’s sturdy form could be easily distinguished, for he was the fourth from the end nearest our friends.

The report of the pistol rang out sharply, and in a moment the race was begun. The scene which followed was one that beggared description. The observant crowd of spectators shouted and cheered and laughed, and it almost seemed as if pandemonium itself reigned supreme. Meanwhile the contestants entered into the struggle with apparently all the zeal that had been manifested by their predecessors. The paddles were driven deep into the water and some of the men were making desperate efforts to outstrip their fellows. But the control of the awkward crafts was no simple matter. At times, for some unaccountable reason, the tubs would begin to turn and whirl, and, despite the efforts of the paddlers, would go in a direction apparently opposite to that which was desired. One poor fellow had already been thrown into the water, and as he was speedily drawn forth by his waiting friends, shouts of laughter seemed to be his only reward.

Bob was moving steadily with the current, and although several tubs were in advance of him, he did not appear to be troubled. He was not exerting himself as were most of the others, his foremost desire being to keep his tub from whirling and within the current.

Suddenly one of the tubs was seen to be headed directly toward Bob. The occupant struggled desperately to prevent a collision, but his efforts only served to increase his helplessness.

“Look out!” called Bob, sharply. “Keep off, or you’ll hit me!”

The man endeavored to change his course, but his increased exertions only deprived him of what little control he still had, and in a moment the twisting, awkward craft came straight toward the alarmed Bob.

The lad was watchful, however, and as the tub came within reach he gave it a sudden push with his paddle and the peril was averted. The effect almost destroyed Bob’s own balance, and for a moment it seemed as if he must be capsized, but as he righted himself he glanced at his rival, who was now in a sad state. He had raised his own paddle to return the thrust the anxious Bob had given him, but his zeal had not been wisely directed. The tub leaned dangerously to one side and as the boatman strove to right it, he threw himself too far to the other side, and after “wabbling” for an instant, it suddenly capsized and threw its occupant into the water. As he came to the surface he hastily swam to the upturned tub, and was soon rescued by the men who were skirting the racers for that very purpose.

Bob, however, had no time to waste upon his unfortunate competitor, and was carefully guiding his own treacherous craft. He could see that some of the desperate men about him were going sidewise or backward, and were striking out wildly with their paddles, striving to change the method as well as the direction of the procedure. Others were whirling and spinning about in a manner to make even an observer dizzy, to say nothing of the struggling paddler himself. Bob was not striving for speed, and was trusting much to the swiftness of the current to bear him on toward the coveted goal, and as he drew near the end, the wisdom of his course became apparent. Those who had been in advance of him were losing the advantage they had gained by some unfortunate stroke of their paddles, which sent their unwieldy tubs to whirling madly, and speed and control were soon both lost.

On and on moved the few tubs which still were in the race, bobbing up and down, and frequently stopping and whirling madly about as if some sudden and irresistible impulse had seized them. The confusion increased as the goal could be seen, and the first prize lay between Bob and two rivals.

Slowly and carefully Bob increased his stroke, and now only ten feet yet remained to be crossed. The three tubs were close together, and bunched for the final effort. Suddenly Bob drove his paddle far down into the water, and exerting all his strength, sent his tub forward with his final effort; but directly in front of him one of his rivals had drifted, and in a moment they struck together. The other contestant, to save himself, had instantly grasped Bob’s tub and “wabbling,” careening, threatening every moment to capsize, the two crossed the line together, and their mutual rival was a full yard behind them.

Instantly the whistles and shouts announced the end of the race, and Bob’s rival turned good-naturedly to him and said,—

“I’ve got the first prize and you the second, though you wouldn’t have had it if I hadn’t towed you over the line.”

“That’s for the judges to decide,” laughed Bob. “I think you fouled me and held me back with your hands, or I’d been first.”

The boats now swarmed in, and, amidst the laughter of the people, it was decided that the first prize should be divided, for the two tubs had crossed the line after the manner in which the Siamese twins had moved through life, together.

“It’s another case of ‘united we stand, divided we fall,’” remarked Bob, as the decision was announced.

But there was no opportunity for further conversation, for Mr. Clarke’s yacht now steamed close in, and Bob and his tub were received on board.

“A wise man of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl,” said Miss Bessie, as Bob quietly took his seat. “I congratulate you.”

“Thank you,” replied Bob. “Did you say you had had your luncheon?”

“No, we’ve been waiting for the victor. We’ll have it now.”

As she departed to look after the various baskets, Jock said, “Bob, you’re the greatest fellow I ever saw. You never seem to be working much, but yet you always come out all right. It’s the same way with your studies. You don’t work as hard as I do, but you always beat me. I don’t understand it.”

“Don’t you believe that Bob doesn’t work,” interrupted Bert. “I know him better than you do. It’s the thing he doesn’t do that helps Bob, as much as what he does do. Now I watched him out there in the race. Most of the other fellows were striking out with their paddles in every direction, but Bob here just watched the current and let that do most of the work. It’s the same way with his studies. Most of the fellows spend half their time in fussing around and getting ready, and then breaking in on their work after they’ve once begun. But you never saw Bob do that. He never makes a false move, or an unnecessary one, and when he starts, he just keeps at the necessary things and lets the others go. Bob does so well because he makes everything count.”

“That’s the secret of success, young man,” said Mr. Clarke. “The reason why so many men fail in life is because they waste their time and strength in unnecessary things, and don’t learn what not to do.”

“I think our luncheon is ready now,” said Miss Bessie, as she rejoined the group. “I had a basket of fruit I was going to give you,” she added, speaking to Bob, “but I’m afraid it’s spoiled.”

“Never mind. To the victors belong the spoils,” said Ben. “Give it to him just the same.”

A groan followed Ben’s pun, but the sight of the welcome baskets speedily banished all other thoughts, and for a time the scene on board the yacht was one in which all who were there certainly rejoiced. The perfect summer day, the sight of the many boats moving about over the river, the bright colors to be seen on every side, the animation and happiness of those on board the yacht, were sufficient to inspire all, and certainly the party in which we are particularly interested was not one that required much beyond the youth and health which were theirs to make them have an enjoyable time.

Their delight was increased when in the “finals” for the canoe races Ben was able to secure third prize. He himself was more than content with the award, for he had been compelled to enter the lists against some who had had the practice and experience of many summers, and he had had but one. His long arms, and, above all, his persistence in the face of all obstacles, had availed; and when our boys returned to camp they were highly delighted with the achievements of the day, as we may be well assured were the other members of the party.

On the way home Mr. Clarke had related the further story of the exploits of the “pirate,” Bill Johnston, but it is doubtful whether any of the party retained a very clear recollection of the dark doings of the aforesaid Bill, and even Bob himself had only a dim impression that after various brilliant-hued deeds, in the so-called patriot war, he had been captured and taken to Albany, but had soon procured a release and returned to the Thousand Islands, where among his various occupations he had been keeper of one of the lighthouses to the day of his death.

Miss Bessie had not entered the canoe races, as her father had objected, but she had expressed her willingness to race with Ben whenever he felt disposed to enter into a contest with her. Whether it was her challenge or not, I cannot say, but in the days which followed there were many hours spent by our boys at “The Rocks,” or in coursing over the river in Mr. Clarke’s fleet yacht.

And what days they were! Every morning brought its own fresh experiences, and it was the regular thing for the boys to declare at night when they returned to the camp and prepared for bed, that this was the best day yet.

But all things are said to have an end, and certainly the camp on Pine Tree Island proved to be no exception to the rule. The September days had come, and though the crowds about the river became decidedly thinned, our boys still remained, and Jock’s mother was still at the hotel at Alexandria Bay. Only one week remained before the beginning of the fall term in college, and it was at last decided that on the morrow the camp should be broken.

It was with special pleasure the last evening in camp that Jock broached a subject to Ethan and Tom in which he had been deeply interested, and concerning which he had had much correspondence with his father, and that was the promise of a position for Tom in Mr. Cope’s office in New York.

Ethan at first was inclined to demur, but at last gave his consent, inasmuch as the position promised to be one which eventually might yield even more than the marvellous “dollar and a half a day,” to which he had made such frequent references during the summer.

The last visit to the Clarkes had been made, the last sail taken in Ethan’s catboat, the last spin enjoyed in the canoes, and now the boys were seated together for the last time before the roaring camp-fire, which in honor of the occasion had been made even larger than usual. Far out over the river the flickering lights cast their shadows. The moaning in the tree tops was more pronounced, as was only fitting in a September evening and before the departure of the boys. The sound of the laughter in the camp was more subdued, and all seemed to feel the sadness of parting, even from such inanimate objects as the rushing river and the green-covered islands.

For a time the boys were silent, then Ben, who could not long refrain from talking, said, “It’s been a great summer, Jock. I don’t know how we’ll ever repay you.”

“You have done that already,” replied Jock. “I’m glad you fellows have had a good time. I know I’ve enjoyed it.”

“There’s been only one drawback,” suggested Ben.

“What’s that?”

“That volume of C’s in the Cyclopædia. Cartier, Champlain, Cavon, Cortereal, Chimney Island—”

“Oh, that’s all right, too,” replied Jock, laughing. “We’ve been on The Trail of the Early Discoverers, haven’t we? Well, we ought to know something about them. We haven’t had enough to spoil us.”

“I trow not,” interrupted Bob, solemnly.

“I say, fellows,” said Jock, as a sudden thought seemed to strike him, “wouldn’t it be a great thing to keep on with this! We’ve been on this trail this summer; now, why shouldn’t we keep on and follow them into other places next summer?”

“A colossal idea,” said Bert, “if it can be worked out.”

“I’m going to fix that,” said Jock, decidedly. “Come on now, fellows, it’s time we were in bed. Let’s fire off the cannon for the last time.”

In a moment the roar of the cannon awoke the echoes, and then silence rested over the camp and the river.