When, of the eleven loads of wood, about three were still unpiled, Ned began to feel need of a change of air. It seemed to him that the climate of Deep Creek, sixteen miles down the river, would be just the thing for him.

In short, he was stricken by his annual violent attack of the camping-out-fever—a malady very popular during the summer, in Beaufort.

Hal, too, was taken at the same time. The symptoms were a burning desire to get away from town, and into the woods; to lie around in old clothes, regardless of time, and free from all fuss; to amuse oneself as one pleased; to be lazy; to be uncivilized and unwashed; to row a boat, which is fun, instead of to pile wood, which is work.

The two boys compared notes, and agreed, Bob voting “yea,” that the sooner they left, the better. Deep Creek appealed to both as the proper locality; and Bob, it goes without comment, stood ready to follow them any place.

Hal, whose father was less strict as to chores than was Ned’s, was used to dropping into the Miller back yard, once in a while, mornings, and giving Ned the comfort of company at the wood-pile. This lightened Ned’s labors, but it did not hasten them, for there were moments when the talk grew so interesting that he forgot to keep the slabs moving.

The camping-out fever now interfered seriously with the progress of the piling. To make matters worse, these three remaining loads were the most stubborn, closely packed loads conceivable. So stubborn were they, that it was as if they grew each night, and thus made up what they had lost during the day!

Camping details all had been discussed and settled, and finally Hal, who had been impatiently awaiting the last hour of the heap, said boldly:

“Why don’t you ask your father to let you go anyway, Ned, and tell him you’ll pile the rest when you come home? It will have lots of time to dry before winter!”

“He won’t, I know,” replied Ned, sadly.

“Oh, I bet he will,” insisted Hal. “He doesn’t care when the wood’s piled, if it’s only dry in time.”

“Well, I’ll ask him,” sighed Ned. “But he won’t, I know.”

He mustered his courage, and at the table that noon he hinted:

“Tom Pearce and Joe Cluny and a lot of other fellows went camping this morning.”

“Yes?” responded his father, politely.

“I wish Hal and I could go,” continued Ned.

“But I thought you were going,” remarked Mr. Miller. “I thought you had arranged to go to Deep Creek.”

“I mean, I wish we could go right away, when fishing’s good,” explained Ned, squirming in his chair.

“What is hindering?” inquired his father, looking wondrous ignorant.

“The wood,” faltered Ned. Then he blurted: “Say—can’t I finish it when I come back? It’s just a little bit.”

“Neddie!” reproved his mother. “The idea of addressing your father with ‘say’!”

“Oh! The wood still hangs on, does it?” asked his father, innocently. “Well, Ned, since it is ‘just a little bit’ you can finish it up to-morrow, I should think, and have it off your hands. Besides, don’t you remember that I told you the wood must be piled, first, and the camping could follow?”

“Y-y-yes,” admitted Ned.

“If Hal is in such a hurry,” added his mother, “why don’t you suggest to him that he might help you out by piling, instead of hindering you by talking?”

Ned lapsed into silence. It was no use; the conversation had ended as he had expected. He had only proved that he knew his father much better than Hal did.

Yet, although Hal had failed on one tack, it was he who really brought the rescue, after all. When, within an hour, Ned reported to him the failure of plans for a truce, Hal thought an instant, and suddenly said:

“I tell you! I’ll come down early to-morrow morning, and we’ll jump into that wood and not stop ’til it’s finished!”

And to their great relief and no doubt to the surprise of the wood, the last slab had been laid in place before noon of the next day!

They spent that afternoon collecting their camping outfit.

This consisted of blankets and provisions, mainly, although Mrs. Miller made Ned, to his disgust, take a few extra articles of clothes. Mothers seem unable to grasp how little a boy needs, in that line, when camping in summer!

They gaily trundled a full wheelbarrow-load of stuff down to the Diamond Jo warehouse; then they returned up-town to buy a lot of canned goods, and coffee and sugar, with which to eke out the bread and potatoes and onions, etc., furnished by the home larders.

These store things also having been wheeled to the warehouse, nothing now was left to do but to wait until morning.

“Why, Ned—aren’t you going to have a tent?” exclaimed his mother, shocked.

“Of course not!” snorted Ned, in disdain. “There’s a shed we can go under if it rains.”

Mrs. Miller, in dismay, broke the news to her husband, but he merely laughed, and said, patting her shoulder:

“It won’t hurt them any. When they get enough they can come home.”

“It won’t hurt them any,” was a favorite remark of Mr. Miller’s. He had great faith in the happy-go-lucky ways of the average healthy boy, and his theory rarely was at fault.

But Mrs. Miller, not yet at ease, continued to hover around Ned, and ask him other anxious questions which seemed to him very foolish, but which to her seemed quite natural.

“Neddie, I really don’t believe you’re going to have plenty to eat!” she asserted.

“With two trot-lines? My, yes!” assured Ned. “Why, we can live on just fish!”

His words had such a ring of confidence that his mother—although “trot-lines” was a complete mystery to her—accepted them, and tried not to worry.

At half-past six the next morning Ned and Hal and Bob were at the warehouse, waiting for the steamer Harriett. The Harriett was a daily packet between Beaufort and Rapids City, forty miles below, and not only stopped at the towns between, but also would take on and put off passengers at points, wherever requested, along the shores.

At seven the Harriett came down from North Beaufort, where she was tied up at night, and thrust her nose upon the levee beside the warehouse. The two boys and Bob gladly scampered aboard, over the gangplank; the roustabouts carried on the two boxes containing the camp stuff, and while its owners nervously watched, hauled the scull-boat from the water, and stowed it, too, below deck. All the other freight having been cleaned up, the Harriett whistled for the bridge to open, and at the same time backed out.

At last the boys were off.

Commodore Jones had just settled himself on his little platform, for a morning smoke, and running up on the hurricane deck, they leaned out, toward him, as they passed, and called:

“Good-bye, Mr. Jones. Want any fish?”

“Good-bye,” he shouted, waving his pipe. “Yes; bring ’em—when you get ’em!”

Through the draw sped the Harriett, and on past the Mosher Lumber Mill (disfigured but busy), past Eagle Island (Bob not deigning a glance at his old homeplace), and on, with a stop or so, until soon the Deep Creek landing was right ahead.

This landing was at a government light upon a small peninsular. A few rods above, the Monga, a shallow but wide and swift stream, emptied into the Mississippi, and to reach the Deep Creek grounds it was necessary to cross. People who had no skiff with them signaled to Joe and Sam, fishermen who lived beside the creek, to come and ferry them over. Ned and Hal and Bob, however, had the scull-boat; and when they and their traps and their craft had been dumped ashore, all at once, and the Harriett was fussily hurrying away, they lost no time in loading up and pushing off.

Now, Deep Creek was not truly a creek. It was a narrow slough, extending parallel with the Mississippi, between an island and the shore. It was a popular resort for fishing parties, and a number of Beaufort men had erected a little cabin beside it, for use as a club-house.

Having passed the mouth of the Monga the boys entered the slough. Sam and Joe, always upon the outlook for a job when the Harriett was due, were standing in front of their shanty, and opposite them Hal and Ned rested on their oars, to ask:

“How’s fishing?”

“Good,” replied the brothers, together.

“Anybody else down here?” queried Ned.

Sam and Joe shook their heads, again together. They had this peculiarity, possibly from being so much in each other’s company, night and day. One thought appeared to do for both, and when they spoke, or laughed, or wagged their heads, they did so as one man! Considering that they lived by themselves, summer and winter, in their shanty on the bank of the slough, the wonder is, not that they grew to think alike, but that they did not grow to look alike, as well!

Sam had red hair and red whiskers and a red, freckled skin; Joe had iron-gray hair and whiskers, and a skin tanned deep as mahogany. Sam was quick-tempered; Joe was easy-going. Both were reserved in manner and chary of words.

The boys proceeded up the slough a quarter of a mile, and landed. Here they pitched their camp by tucking their boxes under a wild-grape arbor at the water’s edge, and sitting upon them. The sun was high, and the thick shade of the arbor was an agreeable relief from the hot row along the glassy bayou.

“This is better than any tent,” declared Ned. “Isn’t it!”

“Lots!” responded Hal, with enthusiasm. “Now let’s set our trot-lines.”

“All right,” agreed Ned.

Bob took no part in this conversation. While yet the scull-boat had been six feet from the bank he had leaped over the bows, and half-swimming, half-wading, had scrambled ashore, to disappear in the woods. Probably his doggy mind was bent upon discovering a nice camping spot, in advance of his chums. But he must have missed the grape-arbor and his chance, for here was the camp—and no Bob!

Fumbling in one of the boxes Ned pulled out the trot-lines, rolled in two big balls, and the bunch of hooks to be attached, and a large slab of liver for bait. Then he and Hal started off again in the scull-boat.

“Trot-lines” are long lines to which fish-hooks are hung, at near intervals, by pieces of cord. Some trot-lines are strung with a hundred or two hundred hooks. The boys’ lines were only three hundred feet in length, and they counted on hanging fifty hooks to each. The trot-lines were the size of window-cord, or braided clothes-line, and had been tarred so that they should not rot.

Ned and Hal slowly sculled up the slough, keeping their eyes open for good places at which to set out their lines. Presently they came to an old raft—or, rather, but a portion of a raft—lying along the island side of the bayou. It must have been in Deep Creek for years, because the logs were green with mossy growth. It was a peaceful old raft, dozing here, forgotten, with one edge high and dry among the island brush, and the other edge well out into the slough.

“Say—we can tie the lines to the raft!” proposed Ned, struck with the idea.

“I should smile!” assented Hal, slangily.

“One above and one below,” continued Ned. “Let’s fix the upper one first.”

As they skirted the outer logs, on ahead of them turtles, sunning themselves, slid hastily into the water, and the route of the boat was thus marked by a succession of splashes.

The boys were nearing the head of the raft, when Ned stopped sculling, and asked:

“What’s the matter with this?”

“It’s about right, I guess,” replied Hal. “We can tie to that pin.”

“Well,” said Ned, “I’ll hold the boat steady, and you fix the line.”

He turned the boat in hard against a log from which jutted a stout wooden pin almost touching the water. Hal, reaching over the bow, securely tied the end of his line. Then with a shove he sent the boat away, toward the middle of the slough, and Ned gently sculled until they had gone at right angles about twenty yards, with the line trailing between the boat and the raft.

Now Hal deftly attached the first hook by its two feet of cord, baited it with a bit of liver, and let it slide overboard. Three feet farther along the line he fastened another hook; and in this manner they went edging across the slough, until the fifty hooks had been tied on and baited.

The next step was to sink the line. Hal tied upon the free end two heavy coupling links which had been stored in under the bows. Ned sculled ahead, slightly up stream, to make allowance for the sluggish current, until the line, with its dangling hooks and liver, was fairly taut.

“There she goes!” remarked Hal; with a clink the coupling links disappeared beneath the surface, and the line followed.

They were on their way to the foot of the raft, to set out their second line, when a piercing howl from the main shore startled them. It was Bob, lonesome, disgusted and impatient, demanding that they return to land and to him. Where he had been, they did not know. But now he was sitting at the water’s brink, directly opposite them, and accusing them of deserting him.

“Bob, be quiet!” ordered Ned.

However, Bob, hearing the voice, and judging that his howling was to be in vain, decided that since they would not come to him he would go to them; whereupon with a yelp of defiance he plunged into the slough, and yapping at intervals laid a course for the boat.

“Go back, Bob! Go back, sir!” cried Ned.

“Let him come, Ned,” pleaded Hal. “He won’t do any harm.”

“He’ll only eat the liver, if he has half a chance, and hang himself on a hook!” exclaimed Ned. “Help me make him go back.”

Thus appealed to, Hal, understanding the situation, took sides with Ned against Bob, and the two boys yelled commands, and splashed with the oars.

Bob, wavering in the face of such a hostile reception, hesitated, swam in a circle, and finally sought the shore again. Here he contented himself with parading up and down, and venting his feelings by short, indignant barks.

The second trot-line was put out, from a point near the foot of the raft, by a method similar to that already told. Slanting athwart the depths of the slough the two lines now extended, ready for business. Satisfied, and also very hungry, the boys made for shore and the grape arbor, where they were joyously welcomed by Bob.

According to the height of the sun, as well as to their stomachs, it was ripe noon, and time for dinner. By common consent, in their outings, Hal, who had a knack in that direction, was the cook. It was Ned’s duty to provide the wood, and to attend to camp affairs generally outside of the meals.

Bob was watchman and sergeant-at-arms.

“What will we have?” inquired Hal.

“Oh, anything,” answered Ned; “just so we have it quick!”

“Bacon and potatoes, fried together,” proffered the cook.

And bacon and thin slices of potatoes, fried together in a skillet over a brisk little fire of branches and driftwood, it was!

“I tell you there’s nothing like bacon!” sighed Ned, scraping his tin plate.

“And potatoes!” sighed Hal, also scraping. (Who says that cooking spoils the appetite!)

Bob, having gobbled his share, was trying to lick the hot skillet!

“Do you know what we forgot?” exclaimed Ned, thunder-struck. “Coffee!”

“But if I’d had to make coffee you’d have had to wait a lot longer for dinner. It takes an age to boil water over a fire like that one,” explained Hal.

“Well, bacon and potatoes and slough water are good enough—in a hurry,” admitted Ned.

Bob cleaned the skillet and Ned the plates—the grease yielding before a liberal rubbing with wet mud—and Hal, digging a hole at the water’s edge, buried the fruit-jar containing their supply of butter, so that it should not melt too much.

This precaution having been taken, and the camp tidied, Hal mused, looking up toward the raft:

“I wonder if we’ve caught any fish, yet.”

“It’s too soon to go and see,” replied Ned, wistfully. “About four o’clock will be time enough to try. Let’s visit Sam and Joe.”

“Come on,” agreed Hal.

They found the Morgan brothers at home, and apparently glad to receive company. A large brindle dog was much less hospitable, and during the boys’ stay he and Bob kept up a constant exchange of sneers and threats. In fact, a pitched battle was only narrowly avoided—partly through the efforts of the Morgans, and partly because Bob would not stir from between Ned’s legs.

The atmosphere about the shanty was quite fishy, and fish scales were scattered everywhere. There also was another, much stronger odor, at which the three newcomers wrinkled their noses in disgust.

Joe was occupying a bench, puffing at his pipe; and sitting on a second bench, with a board across his lap, Sam, likewise puffing, was cutting into small square cakes what seemed to be a mass of dough.

“Howdy,” said the boys—Ned holding Bob by the collar.

The two men nodded gravely, and Joe, removing his pipe to knock out the ashes, remarked:

“Got your lines set all right? See you fussin’ ’long the logs a bit ago.”

“Yes, we thought we’d try a couple, just for fun,” responded Ned. “Do you think the raft is a good place?”

“W-w-well, I shouldn’t wonder but what it is, for a short line,” said Joe, filling his pipe.

“Will we get any fish, Joe?” queried Hal.

“Mebbe,” said Joe. “A few cats, like as not.”

“Say—what’s Sam doing?” questioned Ned, sniffing and frowning.

“He’s—makin’—dough—balls,” said Joe, between puffs of his freshly lighted pipe.

“Dough-balls!” repeated Hal, quite in the dark.

“Yep,” said Joe. “We take a lot o’ cheese and let it lay outdoors ’til it’s real old an’ then we mix it with flour, into a paste, an’ when it’s good an’ stiff we cut it into the right size for bait—like Sam’s doin’ now. Them’s dough-balls. Smell ’em?”

“Smell ’em!” cried both boys together.

“Well, the fish smell ’em, too,” said Joe, tersely.

“What you boys usin’?” inquired Sam, speaking for the first time since their appearance.

“Liver,” stated Hal.

“That’s better ’n dough-balls, I reckon,” grunted Sam. “But if you had four or five hunderd hooks to keep baited, you’d right soon run out o’ liver, I bet.”

“You see, we’ve only fifty hooks on each line,” explained Ned, modestly. “When we haven’t any liver we’re going to use frogs, and crawfish and things.”

“How often ought we to run the lines?” asked Hal. “Every four or five hours?”

“If you’re a might to,” replied Joe. “O’ course, we run ours only mornin’ an’ night, but it’s kinder more of a job than yours be! If I was you I’d run ’em ’bout five o’clock, an’ then ’long ’bout ten, again, to bait ’em for the night, an’ again arly in the mornin’, an’ mebbe at noon.”

“That’ll keep ’em baited in good shape,” put in Sam, “an’ you ought to get fish if there’s any ’round.”

“All right; much obliged,” responded the boys.

“In case you get more’n you can eat at one haul,” offered Joe, kindly, “there’s a fish-box, down in the water near that stake, that we ain’t using, and you can have it so’s to keep ’em alive, if you want to.”

“Sure; take it along,” urged Sam.

“I should say we would like it! It’s just the thing!” exclaimed the boys, delighted. “Much obliged.”

They hung around for a short time, and then, haunted by that fish-box, hastened back to camp—Bob growing braver and braver as they put distance between them and the brindled dog—to bring down their boat and get their prize.

Upon their return, with Joe’s help they loaded the water-soaked box, dripping from every slat, into their craft, and gleefully made off with it.

Soon they had it sunk and anchored in front of their grape arbor.

“I don’t suppose it’s more than three, yet,” hinted Hal, when, uncertain as to what to do next, to make time fly, they paused and wiped their hands on their trousers-legs.

“I suppose not,” agreed Ned, noting the height of the sun. “But don’t let’s wait till five, this time,” he proposed. “Let’s run the lines now, just for the fun of it.”

Hal needed no persuasion. Leaving Bob to be watchman over the camp, they pushed out again from shore.