CHAPTER I


THE HALT ON THE ADIRONDACK CABBY

"Where's Touch-and-Go Steve, fellows?"

"Why, Max, he slipped away with his little steel-jointed fishing-rod as
soon as he heard you say we'd stop here over night. And I saw him
picking some fat white grubs out of those old rotten stumps we passed at
the time we rested, an hour back. Huh! just like Slippery Steve to get
out of the hard work we've going to have cutting enough brush for making
our shanty shelter tonight; seeing that we didn't fetch our bully old
tent along this trip. He's a nice one, I should say."

"N-n-never you m-m-mind about Steve, Bandy-legs. He t-t-told me he
_knew_ he c-c-could yank a m-m-mess of fine trout out of that c-c-creek,
where it looked so s-s-shallow just back there. He's m-m-meaning to
w-w-wade in, too, I reckon, and when you s-s-smell the fish c-c-cooking
you'll be s-s-sorry you said what you did."

"Well, let's get a move on, and start that shanty. I chose this place
partly on account of there being so much brush handy, you see."

"Sure you did, Max. It takes you to notice things that miss our eyes.
Here, let me handle the hatchet, because you see I was such a truthful
little shaver away back that my folks often regretted they hadn't named
me George Washington."