ers,
enshrouded each by a zone of mist, are flitting by.

"Yes," he repeats, and again his voice has that minor strain of
suppressed excitement, "we're hitting it just right. There'll be rain,
or a flurry of snow, maybe, and the paddle feet will be down in the
clouds."

CHAPTER VI--"MARK THE RIGHT, SANDFORD!"

And they are. Almost before we have stumbled off at the deserted
station into the surrounding darkness, Johnson's familiar bass is
heralding the fact.

"Millions of 'em, boys," he assures us, "billions! Couldn't sleep last
night for the racket they made on the lake. Never saw anything like it
in the twenty years I've lived on the bank. You sure have struck it
this time. Right this way," he is staggering under the load of our
paraphernalia; "rig's all ready and Molly's got the kettle on at home,
waiting breakfast for you.... Just as fat as you were last year, ain't
ye?" a time-proven joke, for I weigh one hundred and eight pounds.
"Try to pull you out, though; try to." And his great laugh drowns the
roar of the retreating train.

At another time, that five-mile drive in the denser darkness, just
preceding dawn, would have been long perhaps, the springs of that
antiquated buckboard inadequate, the chill of that damp October air
piercing; but now--we notice nothing, feel nothing uncomfortable. My
teeth chatter a bit now and then, when I am off guard, to be sure; but
it is not from cold, and the vehicle might be a Pullman coach for
aught I am conscious.

For we have reached the border of the marsh, now, and are skirting its
edge, and--Yes, those are ducks, really; that black mass, packed into
the cove at the lee of those clustering rushes, protected from the
wind, the whole just distinguishable from the lighter shadow of the
water: ducks and brant; dots of white, like the first scattered
snowflakes on a sooty city roof!

"Mark the right, Sandford," I whisper in oblivion. "Mark the right!"

And, breaking the spell, Johnson laughs.

CHAPTER VII--THE BACON WHAT AM!

When is bacon bacon, and eggs eggs? When is coffee coffee, and the
despised pickerel, fresh from the cold water of the shaded lake, a
glorious brown food, fit for the gods?

Answer, while Molly (whose real name is Aunt Martha) serves them to
us, forty-five minutes later.

Oh, if we only had time to eat, as that breakfast deserves to be
eaten! If we only had time!

But we haven't; no; Sandford says so, in a voice that leaves no room