Canoe Boys and Campfires | Page 2

was the general verdict concerning Randy, and it was a
true one. His father was wealthy and never refused to gratify any
reasonable desire of his only son. In consequence Randy was somewhat
spoiled and self willed, but in other ways he was really a sensible lad.
The fact of his own superior position in life never occurred to him in
relation to his companions. He gave himself no airs, and expected no
homage or adulation.
His chief fault was a strong and uncurbed will, and he unfortunately
had a quick temper. He was just sixteen years old, and was strong and
hardy. He had dark eyes and hair, and a pleasing, attractive face.
Randy's most intimate friend, Ned Chapman, differed from him in
every respect, and made an admirable foil for the other's impetuous
temperament. Ned's father was a merchant in moderate circumstances,
and he had just reason to be proud of his son's bringing up.
Ned was a steady, sensible lad, with very rigid ideas of right and wrong.
Not that there was anything "priggish" about him. On the contrary, he
was always the foremost in any undertaking that provided a little sport.
He was intensely fond of outdoor life, and was an acknowledged
authority on everything relating to fishing, hunting, canoeing, and
boating. But he did not allow recreation to interfere with his studies.
He and Randy were pupils at the academy, and both stood high in their
classes.
Ned was a year older than Randy and half a head taller. He had brown
hair, grayish brown eyes, and a deeply bronzed complexion, the result
of living much in the open air and under the burning glow of the
summer sun.
His face wore an expression of habitual good humor, and he had a rare
command of his temper.
His grave displeasure was more dreaded than a passionate outburst

would have been.
And now that two of the characters have been introduced to the reader,
we must resume the thread of the story.
Randy's stipulated ten minutes had gone by, and five additional ones,
when a shrill whistle was heard in the rear of the boathouse.
Both doors were open, and when the boys turned in their chairs and
looked through they saw their tardy companion descending the steps
that led from the top of the bank.
"It's Clay at last," exclaimed Randy.
"And some one with him," added Ned, as a second figure came into
view.
At that instant the lad in the rear slipped, plunged head foremost down
the remaining half dozen steps, knocking Clay to one side, and
sprawled out in the doorway like a flattened frog.
Ned and Randy sprang up and hurried through the room.
"Why, it's Nugget," they exclaimed in great surprise. "Where did you
come from, old fellow? We're awfully glad to see you."
Nugget, otherwise known as Nugent Blundell, rose painfully to his feet
and glared at the boys.
"Why don't you ask me if I'm hurt?" he demanded wrathfully. "I
believe you fellows greased those steps on purpose."
"See here, Nugget, you don't believe anything of the sort," said Ned.
"I'm sorry you fell, and I'm glad you're not hurt. Come, old fellow,
shake hands."
Nugget's face assumed a mollified expression, and he accepted a hearty
handclasp from Ned and Randy. Then he began to brush the dust from
his neat gray suit and patent leather shoes.

Meanwhile Clayton Halsey had been fairly choking with stifled mirth
in a dark corner of the room. He now came forward, trying hard to
assume an expression of gravity.
He was a short, thickset lad, with a beaming countenance, red cheeks,
blue eyes, and light curly hair. He was in the same class at the academy
with Ned and Randy, and their constant companion on all occasions.
His father was a prominent lawyer.
"What kept you so long?" asked Randy in a slightly aggrieved tone.
"That," replied Clay, pointing at Nugget. "He arrived in town this
afternoon, and came to the house after supper. I knew you fellows
would be glad to see him, so I brought him along. But what do you
think?" added Clay, winking slyly at Ned and Randy, "Nugget says he's
going canoeing with us."
This piece of information produced a startling effect. Ned puckered his
lips and gave a low whistle. Randy stared at Clay for an instant and
then burst into a laugh.
Why this avowal on Nugget's part was received in such a peculiar way
will be more clearly understood if a few words be said about that young
gentleman himself.
Nugget was a New York boy, greatly addicted to cream colored clothes,
white vests, patent leather shoes, high collars, gorgeous neckties, kid
gloves, and canes.
He was about seventeen years old, and was tall and