face and braced against the current to hold the canoe.
Between coughing and laughing Stanley could only point to the streaming, downcast face of Bub. Finally he managed to inform, “It is not my fault. Mr. Thomas, the expert is the one to blame.”
“Don’t see how my pole caught,” sheepishly bellowed Bub above the roar of the current.
With considerable effort and with each of the trio going under water more than once the delicate craft was worked ashore and righted. Nothing had been lost, but the flour was a dark brown paste.
“Give Reddy that pole and sit down and see if ye can keep quiet,” thundered Abner, as the journey was recommenced.
Bub silently obeyed and grinned ruefully as Stanley took his place and deftly performed his portion of the labor.
“It’s all in knowing how, Mr. Thomas,” he informed the disconsolate Bub. As no more accidents marred the day good progress was made before camp was pitched.
As Stanley was preparing the lean-to, this time in an opening, he was struck with the uselessness of going through the daily grind of
