“Have you asked those two young men to breakfast again?” inquired Mr. Archibald, after examining, with a moderate interest, the specimen of birch-bark which Margery had shown him.

“Oh no, indeed,” said she, “they have had their breakfast. They have been telling me about it. The bishop got up very early in the morning and cooked it for them. He’s a splendid cook, and he found things in their hampers that they didn’t know they had. They said his coffee was delicious, and they have left him there in their camp now, washing the dishes and putting everything in order. And do you think, Uncle Archibald, that it is going to rain?”

“I do,” said he, “for it is sprinkling already.”

This proved to be the first bad day since the Archibald party had gone into camp, and the rain soon began to come down in a steady, practised way, as if the clouds above were used to that sort of thing and could easily keep it up all day.

As there was no place under roof to which company could be conveniently invited, Margery retired to her room and set herself diligently to work on her birch-bark quilt.

Mrs. Archibald established herself in the division of the cabin which was intended to be used as a sitting and dining room in bad weather, and applied herself to some sewing and darning, which had been reserved for just such a day as this. Mr. Archibald, in a water-proof suit, tried fishing for half an hour or so, but finding it both unpleasant and unprofitable, he joined his wife, made himself as comfortable as possible on two chairs, and began to read aloud one of the novels they had brought with them.

Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold had considerately gone to their own camp when it began to rain, hoping, however, that the shower would be over in a short time. But the rain was not a shower, and they spent the morning on their backs in their tent, talking and smoking. Of course they could not expect the bishop to depart in the rain, so they had told him to make himself as comfortable as he could in the little kitchen tent, and offered him a pipe and a book. The first he declined, as he never smoked, but the latter he accepted with delight.

After the mid-day dinner Phil Matlack, in a pair of high hunting-boots and an oil-skin coat, came to Mr. Archibald and said that as there was nothing he could do that afternoon, he would walk over to Sadler’s and attend to some business he had there.

“About the bishop?” asked Mr. Archibald.

“Partly,” said Matlack. “I understand the fellow is still over there with those two young men. I don’t suppose they’ll send him off in the rain, and as he isn’t in my camp, I can’t interfere. But it may rain for two or three days.”

“All right,” said Mr. Archibald, “and if we want anything we’ll ask Martin.”

“Just so,” said Matlack. “If there’s anything to do that you don’t want to do yourself, you can get him to do it; but if you want to know anything you don’t know yourself, you’d better wait until I come back.”

When Matlack presented himself before Peter Sadler he found that ponderous individual seated in his rolling-chair near the open door, enjoying the smell of the rain.

“Hello, Phil!” he cried. “What’s wrong at the camp?”

The guide left his wet coat and cap on the little piazza outside, and after carefully wiping his feet, seated himself on a chair near the door.

“There’s three things wrong,” said he. “In the first place, there’s a tramp out there, and it looks to me as if he was a-goin’ to stick, if he can get allowed to do it.”

“Is he too big for you to bounce?” roared Peter. “That’s a pretty story to come tell me!”

“No, he ain’t,” said the other; “but I haven’t got the bouncin’ of him. He’s not in my camp. The young men have took him in; but I expect he’ll come over with them as soon as it’s done rainin’, for when that happens they’re bound to come themselves.”

“Look here, Phil,” said Peter, “is he dressed in black?”

“Yes, he is,” said the guide.

Mr. Sadler slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. “Phil Matlack,” he shouted, “that’s my favorite tramp. I never had a man here who paid his bill in work as he did. It was cash down, and good money. Not a minute of wood-splitting more or less than the market-price for meals and bed. I’d like to have a tramp like that come along about twice a week. But I tell you, Phil, he ain’t no tramp. Couldn’t you see that? None of them loafers ever worked as he did.”

“He may not be a tramp,” said Matlack, “but he’s trampin’. What are you goin’ to do about him? Let him stay there?”

“What’s he doin’ now?” asked Sadler.

“He’s cookin’ for those two young men.”

“Well, they need some one to do it for them, and they didn’t want to go to the expense of a guide. Let the parson alone for a day or two, and if he does anything out of the way just you take him by one ear and Martin take him by the other and bring him to me. I’ll attend to him. What’s the next trouble?”

“That’s out of my camp, too,” said Matlack, “but I’m bound to report it. The bicycle fellow that you hired a gun to don’t know the fust thing about usin’ it, and the next thing you’ll hear will be that he’s shot his pardner, who’s worth six of him.”

Mr. Sadler sat up very straight in his chair and stared at the guide. “Phil Matlack,” he shouted, “what do you take me for? I hired that gun to that young man. Don’t you suppose I know what I’m about?”

“That’s all right,” said Matlack, “but the trouble is he don’t know what he’s about.”

“Get away man,” said Peter, with a contemptuous sniff, “he’ll never hurt anybody. What do you take me for? When he came to me and wanted a gun, I handed him two or three, so that he might choose one that suited him, and by the way he handled them I could see that most likely he’d never handled one before, and so I set him up all right. He’s got a good gun, and all the cartridges he’ll be likely to want; and the cartridges are all like this. They’re a new kind I heard of last winter, and I got a case from Boston last week. I don’t see how I ever managed to run my camps without them. Do you see that shot?” said he, opening one end of a cartridge. “Well, take one in your hand and pinch it.”

Phil did so, and it crumbled to dust in his hand.

“When that load’s fired,” said Peter, “all the shot will crumble into dust. It wouldn’t do to give raw hands blank-cartridges, because they’d find that out; but with this kind they might sit all day and fire at a baby asleep in its cradle and never disturb it, provided the baby was deaf. And he can’t use his pardner’s cartridges, for I gave that fellow a twelve-bore gun and his is a ten-bore.”

Phil grinned. “Well, then,” said he, “I suppose I might as well make my mind easy, but if that bicycle man hunts much he’ll get the conviction borne in on him that he’s a dreadful bad shot.”

“Then he’ll give up shooting, which is what is wanted,” said Sadler. “What’s your third bother?”

“That young woman has made up her mind to go out in the boat by herself the very fust time she feels like it,” said Matlack; “she didn’t say so with her mouth, but she said it with the back of her head and her shoulders, and I want to know if that rule of yours is going to hold good this summer. Women is gettin’ to do so many things they didn’t use to that I didn’t know but what you’d consider they’d got far enough to take themselves out on the lake, and if you do think so, I don’t want to get myself in hot water with those people and then find you don’t back me up.”

“If you don’t want to get yourself into hot water with me, Phil Matlack, you’d better get it into your head just as soon as you can that when I make a rule it’s a rule, and I don’t want people comin’ to me and talkin’ about changes. Women in my camp don’t go out in boats by themselves, and it’s easy enough to have that rule kept if you’ve got backbone enough to do it. Keep the boat locked to the shore when it ain’t in use, and put the key in your pocket, and if anybody gets it that ’ain’t any right to it, that’s your lookout. Now that’s the end of your troubles, I hope. How’s things goin’ on generally in the camp?”

“Oh, well enough,” said Matlack. “I thought at fust the old lady’d give out in a day or two, but I’ve taught her parlor-fishin’, which she’s took to quite lively, and she’s got used to the woods. The boss, he sticks to fishin’, as if it was office-work, and as for the rest of them, I guess they’re all gettin’ more and more willin’ to stay.”

“Why?” asked Peter.

“Well, one of them is a gal and the others isn’t,” replied Matlack, “that’s about the p’int of it.”

During Matlack’s walk back the skies cleared, and when he reached the camp he found Mrs. Archibald seated in her chair near the edge of the lake, a dry board under her feet, and the bishop standing by her, putting bait on her hook, and taking the fish off of it when any happened to be there. Out in the boat sat Mr. Archibald, trusting that some fish might approach the surface in search of insects disabled by the rain. Farther on, at a place by the water’s edge that was clear of bushes and undergrowth, Martin was giving Miss Dearborn a lesson in fly-fishing.

“He’s a mighty good fisherman,” thought Matlack, looking at the young fellow as he brought his rod back from the water with a long graceful sweep, and then, with another sweep and an easy inclination of his body forward, sending the fly far out on the smooth surface of the lake, “although there ain’t no need to tell him so; and I don’t wonder she’d rather stand and watch him than try to do it herself.”

Walking up and down near the edge of the wood were Messrs. Clyde and Raybold.

Phil smiled. “They don’t seem to be happy,” he said to himself. “I guess they’re hankerin’ to take a share in her edication; but if you don’t know nothin’ yourself, you can’t edicate other people.”

Matlack directed his steps towards Mrs. Archibald; but before he reached her he was met by the bishop, who hurried towards him.

“I shall be obliged to surrender my post to you,” he said, “which will be greatly to the lady’s satisfaction, I imagine, for I must appear a poor attendant after you.”

“Goin’ to leave us?” said Matlack. “You look quite spruced up.”

The bishop smiled. “You allude, I suppose,” said he, “to the fact that my hat and clothes are brushed, and that I am freshly shaved and have on a clean collar. I like to be as neat as I can. This is a gutta-percha collar, and I can wash it whenever I please with a bit of damp rag, and it is my custom to shave every day, if I possibly can. But as to leaving you, I shall not do so this evening. I have promised those young gentlemen who so kindly invited me to their camp that I would prepare their supper for them, and I must now go to make the fire and get things in readiness.”

“Have they engaged you as cook and general help?” asked Matlack.

“Oh no,” said the bishop, with a smile, “they are kind and I am grateful, that is all.”