The boys ate their lunch on the sh.o.r.e, after which they pushed off again, touched Westport in the middle of the afternoon for ice cream soda, and camped on the west sh.o.r.e near Split Rock Mountain for the night.

CHAPTER XIII-DOWN THE RICHELIEU RIVER

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 b.u.t.ter, 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e 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 ent.i.tled, '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?"