Canoe Boys and Campfires | Page 3

slender.
He had gray eyes, a sandy complexion and straight flaxen hair, which
he wore banged over his forehead. A vacuous stare usually rested on
his face, and he spoke in a slow, aggravating drawl.
Nugget had made the acquaintance cf the boys during the previous
summer, which he spent with his uncle in Harrisburg. He was a good
enough fellow in some ways, but the several occasions on which he had

been induced to go on fishing and boating excursions, had resulted in
disaster and ridicule at poor Nugget's expense.
"What Nugget doesn't know about swell parties, and dancing, and
operas isn't worth knowing," Clay Halsey had said at that time; "but
when it comes to matters of sport he doesn't know any more than a two
days' old kitten."
The truth of this terse remark was readily appreciated by Clay's
companions, and their present amazement and consternation on
learning that Nugget wanted to go canoeing with them, can be easily
conceived.
"Are you in dead earnest, Nugget?" asked Randy after a pause.
"Of course I am," was the aggressive reply. "I don't see anything funny
about it though. I haven't been very well lately, and father let me stop
school a month ahead of time, and come over here. I know he'll let me
go canoeing if I write and ask him."
"But canoeing is vastly different from the kind of trips you made with
us last summer," said Ned. "There is a good deal of hardship about it.
You remember what a fuss you used to make over the merest trifles."
"You'll have to wear rough flannels and old clothes," added Randy.
"You can't take kid gloves and patent leathers with you."
"And you'll have to sleep on the ground," put in Clay, "and eat coarse
food. No chocolate cake and ice cream about canoeing."
"Oh, stop your chaffing," drawled Nugget sullenly. "I understand all
that. I'm not as green as you think. If you fellows can stand it I can.
Besides I've been practicing on the Harlem River this spring. I paddled
a canoe from the Malta boathouse clear to High Bridge and back. And I
didn't raise a single blister."
"I'll bet you wore gloves," said Clay mockingly.

Nugget flushed with anger and confusion, but said nothing.
"It's time to stop that now, Clay," said Ned authoratively. "If Nugget
wants to go along I don't see any serious objections. No doubt the trip
will do him lots of good. But that question can be settled later. Give us
some light, Randy, and I'll show you what I've got here."
CHAPTER II
PLANNING THE TRIP
It was not yet dark outside but Randy lit the handsome brass lamp that
stood on the square oaken table, and the yellow glow shone into every
corner of the room.
The apartment was furnished in the manner most dear to the hearts of
boys. The polished floor was strewn with soft rugs, and the walls were
hung with pictures and amateur photographs. In the corners and over
the mantels were fencing foils and masks, fishing rods, baseball bats,
creels, and several pairs of crossed canoe paddles which showed traces
of hard usage.
When the boys had dragged chairs to the table and seated themselves,
Ned drew a little bunch of papers from his pocket, and opened them
with a flourish.
"When the question of a canoe trip came up a month ago," he began, "I
told you it would be better fun to cruise on some small stream than on
the Susquehanna. I knew what I was talking about, because I paddled
the whole distance last year, from Lake Otsego to the bay.
"I suggested the Conodoguinet Creek as the best cruising ground we
could find around here, and promised to get all the information about it
I could. I have kept my promise.
"Here is a map of the Cumberland Valley on a large scale, showing the
entire course of the creek, and all its windings. You can examine that at
your leisure. First I want to tell you what I have learned.

"Of course you knew that the Conodoguinet was about the most
crooked stream in existence. We have evidence enough of that near
home. You remember the big bend above Oyster's Dam--three miles
around, and one field's length across. Well, there are bigger bends than
that further up the valley.
"From the mouth of the creek to Carlile is just eighteen miles in a
straight line. By the windings of the creek it is ninety miles. The
distance was accurately measured and surveyed a number of years ago.
"Oakville is twenty miles beyond Carlile, and from there I propose that
we should start. The upper part of the creek is not quite so crooked, but
we are sure of a