CHAPTER XV.
MY FIRST TRIP TO INDIAN LAKE.
THE next morning, just as the clock was striking the hour of four, I was aroused from a reverie into which I had fallen by a hasty step, followed by a blinding glare of light, and Joe Wayring came hurrying into the kitchen. He didn't look much as he did the last time I saw him, and if it hadn't been for his curly head and blue eyes, I don't think I should have recognized him. But he was a nobby looking fellow, all the same, dressed as he was in a neat suit of duck, dyed to a dead grass shade, a light helmet with a peak before and behind, and leggings and gaiters instead of boots. Joe was not the boy to make himself uncomfortable, or to go about in a ragged coat and with his hair sticking out of the top of his cap, just because he intended to spend the day in the
