"I have fifty-nine," said Bill, "and that makes eighty-six altogether,
doesn't it? Isn't there a railroad depot near here?"

"There is one at Raven Hill, and the next is at Lumberville. That is about
eleven miles from home."

"Well," said Bill, "at three cents each per mile that would amount to
sixty-six cents. Let's sail on to Lumberville and then take the train
back."

On we sped to Lumberville, only to find that the next train was not due
until noon, and it was now just half past ten.

Time never hung heavy on our hands. Out on the river we espied an island.
I had heard of this island--Willow Clump Island, it was called--but had
never been on it; consequently I fell in with Bill's suggestion that we
make it a visit. Owing to the rapids which separated the island from the
Jersey shore, we had to go up stream a quarter of a mile, to where a
smooth sheet of ice had formed, over a quiet part of the river; thence we
sailed down to the island along the Pennsylvania side.

"What a capital island for a camp," cried Bill, after we had explored it
pretty thoroughly. "Have you ever been out camping?"

I had to confess I never had, and then Bill gave me a glowing account of
his experiences in the Adirondacks with his uncle the year before, which
so stirred up the romance in me that I wanted to camp out at once.

"Shucks!" said Bill, "We would freeze in this kind of weather, and