  “I never saw such a morning!” “I never did either. I am glad I am alive!” “So am I. It is worth something to be up here where the air is so strong that you can almost bite it off. When we left Mackinac this morning one could hardly tell whether the island was upside down or not. He could see the reflections just as clearly in the water as he could see the island above.” “I wonder what would happen if a fire should break out on the island?” “Probably it would burn, just as it does everywhere else. They did have a fire over there once and they say the whole island burned down.” “This is the place for the simple life!” “Yes, it is a good place for the simple life, but to my mind there is a great difference between a simple life and an idiotic life.” It was an hour before sunrise in a morning in July. The conversation which has been recorded occurred on board a beautiful little motor-boat named the Gadabout. Assisting the captain and owner in the management of the fleet little craft was a young man, whose name sounded to the boys very much like Eph, when they heard the owner of the boat address him. On board the motor-boat were four boys among whom conversation did not lag. The one who had perhaps the most to say was Fred Button. He was a tiny, little fellow, though his round face and rounder body gave him the appearance, as one of his friends described it, of a young bantam. He was familiarly known among his companions sometimes by the nick-name of Stub, or more often was called Peewee, or Pygmy, the last appellation sometimes being affectionately shortened into pyggie, or even pyg. Seated next to him was John Clemens, a boy already six feet three inches tall, though he had not yet attained his eighteenth birthday. Familiarly he was known as String and frequently, when he and Fred Button, who were warm friends, were together they were referred to as the “long and short of it.” On the opposite seat was Grant Jones, a clear headed, self-contained boy of the same age as his companions. A leader in his class in school and active on the athletic field, he had won for himself the nickname of Socrates, which frequently was shortened to Soc. The fourth member of the group was George Washington Sanders, a boy whose good-nature and witty remarks had made him a favorite among his friends. In honor of the name which he bore he sometimes had been referred to as the father of his country, which distinction was occasionally shortened to Papa, or even to Pop. The owner and captain of the swift little craft was an elderly man, whose whiskers and hair formed an unbroken circle about his tanned face. Both he and Eph, when occasion required, served as oarsmen in the two skiffs which the swift Gadabout was towing. The light little boats were far astern, each being held in its place by a long rope made fast to the Gadabout. “Whew!” said Fred Button, rising and stretching himself, “I hope we’ll get some fish to-day. How far do we have to go?” he added, addressing the captain as he spoke. “It depends a little upon where you want to go to,” drawled the captain in response, without turning his head as he replied. “I thought it was understood,” continued Fred, “that we were going to the channel between Drummond Island and Cockburn Island.” “Ye’ll have to show your papers, if you fish over on the Canadian side,” growled the captain. “We shan’t fish on the Canadian side,” spoke up Grant Jones. “We’ll leave it to you to keep us in American waters.” “That’s right,” added John. “If we get caught on the Canadian side, Captain, we’ll hold you responsible for it.” “Humph,” growled the captain, “we’ll see what we’ll see.” Meanwhile the sun had risen and like a huge ball of fire was casting its beams across the smooth waters of Lake Huron. Scarcely a ripple was to be seen as the boat sped forward. The day promised to be unusually warm, but as yet the air was cool, and the spirits of the boys, after their early breakfast, were all high. “We’ve got to get some of these fish to-day,” broke in George Sanders. “We didn’t get many the other day.” “We weren’t far enough away from Mackinac,” said Fred. “I’ve usually noticed,” suggested Grant, “that the best fishing grounds are always a good ways away from where you’re staying. The further away they are, the better they are.” “I’ve noticed that too,” laughed George. “In fact there are a good many funny things in this world. I wonder what people speak of a family jar for.” “What do you mean?” inquired Fred. “I mean just what I say. I heard a family jar this morning.” “I don’t understand you,” persisted Fred. “Why, there was a family having a jar in the room next to mine. Only I think it was a little more than a family jar, it was more of a family churn, it was such a big one. There seemed to be such a very decided difference of opinion that the jar wouldn’t hold all that they were saying.” “You shouldn’t listen to such things,” said Fred. “‘Listen’! ‘Listen’! Why that was the very thing I was trying not to do, but I guess anybody on Mackinac Island could have heard them, if he had stopped.” “Who were the people?” inquired George. “I don’t know their names. The man is the one that wears that ice-cream suit when he goes fishing.” “Oh, yes, I know him,” laughed Grant. “I have observed several times that the immaculateness of his manipulators has not been extremely noticeable.” “That’s right,” laughed John. “There seems to be a superincrustation of unnecessary geological deposits that doubtless are due to his transcontinental pedestrianism.” “Why, did he have to tramp across the continent to get here?” laughed George. “I guess so. I know more about them than I wish I did, but I don’t know enough to know that.” “I noticed,” said Fred, “yesterday afternoon when he came in that his lips looked like Alkali Pete’s.” “What was the matter with Alkali Pete’s lips?” demanded George. “They were seldom closed and there were great crevasses in them, cracked by the alkali.” “I am taking your word for it,” said John, “but I confess I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a good deal more interested in the fish we’re going to get.” “‘We’re going to get.’ I like that. Does String really think he is going to catch any fish?” said George, turning to his companions as he spoke. “His attenuated form doesn’t look to me as if it would be able to stand the strain of landing the fish some of us are going to catch to-day. About the only thing I think String will ever catch will be a crab.” “String, how old are you?” demanded Grant abruptly. “I’m eighteen in October.” “When will you be ten?” “I don’t understand your language,” replied John. “In your superlunary efforts to appear intellectual you sometimes state things that are incomprehensible, even to people of my limited intellectual parts.” “Oh, quit!” broke in Fred, “don’t spoil the day and scare the fish away. I want to tell you about Professor Jackson. You know him, don’t you?” “Yes,” replied Grant, “he’s the man who came on Monday, isn’t he? The man who is making investigations of the island, digging up all sorts of relics?” “That’s the man,” acknowledged Fred. “Yesterday he dug up some cannon balls. He said they were relics of the French and Indian war.” “They were all right,” said George. “I know, for one of the guides told me that they were the same balls that had been dug up by every old fellow for the last twenty-five years.” “A new crop?” laughed Fred. “Not at all. They are the same old cannon balls. They plant them every spring and give pleasure to some of these old fellows, who are traveling around the island in their gentle, antiquated gait looking for things that belonged to our grandfathers. They give them the childish pleasure of making ‘discoveries’ every year.” “I should think they would take the balls away with them,” suggested John. “No, they leave them for the historical interest they provide for the visitors. You go up to the reception room and you’ll find some there now in the glass case. They are a part of the same crop.” “That’s all right,” laughed Grant. “It’s an easy way to keep the old people interested.” By this time the Gadabout had gained the lower point of Drummond Island, thirty-five miles from the place from which they had started more than two hours before this time. Across the narrow channel they saw the shores of Cockburn Island. The latter was within the Canadian boundaries and as the captain of the Gadabout had explained, the boys would not be permitted to fish in the waters along its shore without a special permit from the Canadian officials. The shore which they were approaching apparently had no buildings of any kind. There were high bluffs and rocky points, but no house was within sight. “Captain,” called Fred, “why are you taking us to this island?” “I’m not taking you to this island,” responded the captain. “I’m going to take you past it. I’m not fool enough to try to dodge the Canadian laws.” Both the captain and his mate were watching the shore of the island, which every moment was becoming more distinct. Unexpectedly on a bluff far to the left a man was seen standing and suddenly he appeared to become aware of the approaching Gadabout. Turning abruptly about he several times waved a white cloth, which he held in his hand, to parties that apparently were behind him. Then, once more facing the waters, he again waved the cloth. Instantly and with a grin of satisfaction appearing on his face the captain changed the course of his motor boat. The four boys glanced blankly at one another and for a brief time no one spoke. It was later when they learned that the signal which they had observed was to mean much, both in excitement and adventure, for all four of the boys on board the Gadabout. |
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