Split Rock Mountain was the most delightful place the Comrades had yet discovered in which to make a camp. The day had been rather a strenuous one, and the boys were glad to seek comfortable blankets under the tent-top.

Nothing occurred to mar the peaceful quiet of the night, and the boys awoke at sun-up for their usual morning plunge in the lake. Breakfast, consisting of coffee, bread and butter, and canned meat, was eaten with a relish, and then the boys pushed out into the lake again, eager to be on their way. They were getting well up into New York State now, and would soon cross the line into Canada.

The next night they spent on the east shore, some miles above Burlington, and the afternoon of the following day found them off Plattsburg, famous in history through the great naval battle in Plattsburg Bay, in which Thomas McDonough, commanding the American squadron, had vanquished the English commander, Downie, in a battle lasting two and one-half hours, at the end of which time Downie and many of his officers had been killed, and the British ships were disabled and obliged to strike their colors. The American squadron was badly injured, too, but the victory over the British was most complete and probably did more toward bringing an end to the war than any other single event.

A feeling of awe stole over the boys as they realized that they were on the spot where one of America’s greatest naval heroes had won undying renown.

“Makes a fellow feel like fighting, himself,” said Pod.

“Well, if you want to fight yourself, why don’t you do it?” said Fleet.

“There you go putting a wrong construction on my words,” snapped the little fellow. “I mean, it makes you feel like you’d like to—to—well—like—to——”

“Fight yourself,” said Fleet. “Sure; you told us that before.”

Hugging the shore of Grand Isle, the boys finally left Plattsburg behind. Canoeing was a pleasure now, as the weather was cooler, and a fine breeze from the south tempered the heat, and fairly pushed the canoes to the northward with its power.

Between Isle La Motte and the Vermont mainland they paddled, camping again on a promontory jutting out into the lake a few miles below Rouses’ Point.

“I tell you, fellows, this is real life,” said Fleet, and for a wonder Pod agreed with him. The grandeur of the scenery held a strange fascination for Pod, who had traveled so little. He had pictured such things very frequently, but this trip was beyond his wildest dreams, and for an entire day and a half he forgot to crack a joke—something so unusual that the boys commented upon it.

“Well, how’s this one?” he asked, as they all sat on the shore of the lake, after pitching the tent and preparing things for the night.

“How’s what one?” demanded Fleet.

“Well, give me a chance to tell it, won’t you?”

“Surely; proceed.”

“Why was the man who had been rolling all night in a steamer berth, mad when the steward opened the door in the morning and spoke to him?”

“Give it up,” said Chot.

“Because the steward asked him if he wouldn’t have a fresh roll for breakfast.”

“Bad,” commented Bert.

“Then how’s this one?” said Pod. “Why is the ocean like a good housekeeper?”

“Oh, we’ll give that one up, too?”

“Because it is very tidy.”

“I can’t stand this; I’m going to bed,” Fleet announced.

“Oh, don’t go to bed, yet; recite some verses,” suggested Chot.

It was surprising how quickly Fleet’s manner underwent a change at that.

“Why, I’ll be glad to oblige if you fellows really want to hear them,” said Fleet, seating himself again.

“Oh, delighted,” said Tom in a dismal tone, which made Pod snicker, and Bert laugh out loud.

“But if you’re going to laugh at me I don’t care to recite,” said Fleet.

“Oh, go on,” said Tom. “Don’t mind me.”

He really liked to hear Fleet’s compositions, but was reluctant in telling Fleet so, fearing that Fleet, through the kindness of his heart, would overburden them with verses.

“I have composed a very touching little thing entitled, ‘A Mosquito Bite On the Arm Is Worth Two On the Nose.’”

“Sounds like a minstrel show,” said Pod.

“Maybe it is,” said Chot. “Anyway, I heard a few alleged jokes flying around loose awhile ago.”

“Yes; and there are more where those came from,” said Pod.

“Well, it’s up to Fleet now,” said Chot. “Proceed Fleetsy.”

Fleet proceeded to rattle off a half dozen verses about camping in New Jersey with mosquitoes for companions and ending with “a bite on the arm, is better than two on the nose, oh, tarm.” Then he paused.

“Well, go on; finish it,” advised Tom.

“It’s finished,” said Fleet.

“What! you don’t mean that you have the nerve to perpetrate a thing like that on us and call it a poem?”

“Surely.”

“Well, if that isn’t the worst I ever heard. Don’t you ever, ever start anything like that again.”

“What I want to know,” said Bert, “is the meaning of the word, ‘tarm’.”

“‘Tarm?’” repeated Fleet. “I used no such word.”

“‘Is better than two on the nose, oh, tarm,’ is the last line.”

“Oh, that’s so. Well you fellows know what ‘tarm’ means, don’t you?”

“No; we don’t. Tell us.”

“Why tarm means that if—er—well——”

“A very lucid explanation,” said Pod. “I didn’t know the word had so much meaning.”

“Oh, you make me tired,” said Fleet.

“And you make us tired, reeling off your fake verses, and then because you’re at a loss for something to rhyme with arm, bring in a word that has no meaning.”

“If you fellows don’t like my verses why do you ask me to recite?”

“We won’t any more; be sure of that,” said Chot. “The idea. ‘Tarm!’ That’s a fine word, and your explanation of its meaning was so clear. Guess you’d better seek your little bed, my boy.”

And without another word Fleet obeyed. He knew they were right. The poem had been a makeshift piece of work from beginning to end, and only his eagerness to oblige when they asked for something had led him to recite it. Fleet had a fine talent for rhyming, which would eventually develop into something substantial, but he had a very bad habit of composing his verses quickly, hardly revising them, and throwing in rhymes that were not permissable. To get him out of this habit the boys were now determined, and the lesson on the shore of the lake was but the opening gun in the campaign.

The boys followed their usual plan in the morning of taking a bath in the lake before breakfast. The water was smooth and deep, and they swam and splashed about for half an hour before finally crawling out for a rub down. Then a cup of coffee and such eatables as they had in the canoes made them feel fit for another day’s work.

They were virtually in the Richelieu River now, which broadens out at its source until it would be difficult to tell where Lake Champlain leaves off and the river begins.

The boys found the Richelieu to be a treacherous stream. Rapids and whirlpools of a rather timid variety abounded on all sides, and frequently they were forced to steer their canoes in between huge boulders which reared themselves out of the stream.

This was new sport to each of them, and the fact that there was just a touch of danger made the trip down the Richelieu all the more enjoyable.

Very little paddling was necessary. The swift current, moving relentlessly onward to join its forces with that of the mighty St. Lawrence, swept them along at a rapid rate—in many instances much more rapid than they would have desired, but there was nothing to do but cast themselves on the mercy of the water, steering in and out among the rocks as best they could.

The river abounded with innumerable small islands, and had an exasperating propensity for splitting up into small channels, into any one of which the canoes might shoot. Some of these were narrow, and through them the waters flowed like a mill race, to emerge, perhaps, on the broad bosom of a peaceful river beyond.

It was a fascinating stream, its waters cool like those of the majority of Canadian rivers.

The boys spent the night at St. Johns, passing Iberville at dusk and shooting under the great railroad bridge that spans the river between these two cities.

Their journey from here on was uneventful, except that they were kept constantly on the alert by the varying moods of the river; now moving peacefully along over an almost placid bosom, now plunging into another narrow channel between two islands, where the waters were swift and dangerous.

But the boys got safely through it all, and were forced to admit that the experience had been worth a great deal to them. No one could go down the Richelieu into the St. Lawrence without knowing considerable about the intricacies of canoeing, and even Pod’s chest swelled with pride to think of what he had been through.

Two days after leaving St. Johns the boys arrived at Sorel and saw the mighty St. Lawrence before them, the waters of the Richelieu flowing peacefully into the larger stream at this point, with no suggestion of the rough spots lying between the mouth and the source.

“Gee! what a river!” exclaimed Pod, as he let his eyes roam out over the great stream, until they rested on the shore in the distance. Islands to the number of hundreds dot the surface of the river above Montreal, and many of these were visible from Sorel.

The boys ate a hearty dinner before entering their canoes again, and it was one o’clock in the afternoon when they pushed off into the St. Lawrence, heading in a southwesterly direction.

“This is going to be a pull against the current, fellows,” said Chot, “but I guess we can make it.”

“Seems hard though, after floating down the Richelieu the way we did,” Tom responded.

But they paddled easily, and while their progress was slow compared to their journey down the Richelieu, the shore slowly faded in the distance. Situated on a great bend in the river some distance above Sorel, is Montreal, the metropolis of Canada, of which the boys had heard so much, and here they arrived the next afternoon, after spending the night on one of the smaller islands. It had been decided to spend at least one day ashore before continuing the journey up the river.