them, at least, went at it as they went at every thing else that was hard—with the determination to do it at once and have it over with. Arthur Hastings went first with his little Rob Roy on his back, Joe Wayring followed close behind him with all the guns and paddles he could carry (the rest of them were lashed fast in the cock-pits so that they would not fall out when the canoes were turned bottom up), and they led their companions nearly a third of the distance before they put down their loads and leaned up against a tree to rest.
"This is my last visit to Sherwin's pond this season," panted Arthur, as he drew his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead. "It's too much sugar for a cent—altogether too much."
"Every time you come through here on a hot day you say the same thing," observed Joe.
"I know it; but I am in dead earnest now. The game isn't worth the candle."
"What's the matter? Are you sorry that you didn't smash your canoe in the rapids?" asked Roy.
