“That’s fine! It was good luck that I came across you to-night. If I hadn’t I’d been stuck back there in the road yet!” After that there was plenty to talk about, you may believe, and it was well toward midnight when they climbed the stairs and distributed themselves around the empty bedrooms. “I suppose I might find sheets and blankets and things,” said Whiting, apologetically, “but the mater has them put away somewhere and I wouldn’t know where to look for them. But if a couple of you chaps will only take my bed I’ll be perfectly comfortable in another room.” “So will we,” said Chub. “Don’t you bother. A good hair mattress like this is all a fellow needs, anyway; and it’s too warm for covers if we had them. We’ll be all right, thank you. But you’ll have to wake us up in the morning. I feel as though I could sleep for a week!” “That’s all right; you’ll be called early enough. I told Williams to have breakfast at seven. I’ve got over a hundred miles to do in the car to-morrow and want to get started early. Good-night, fellows. I do hope you’ll be comfortable.” “If I felt any better,” murmured Chub, sprawled out on a big wide bed which he was to have all to himself, “I’d certainly yell. Good-night, Whiting. May you be forever blest!” They slept finely, were up at half past six, had shower-baths, and were seated around the table at a little after seven. Williams tried hard not to show the astonishment he felt at finding the family circle so suddenly and inexplicably enlarged, but didn’t altogether succeed. At eight they were in the car again, retracing their path of the night before, Chub attired in a plaid cap which his host insisted on his accepting. It was a wonderful golden morning with the bluest of blue skies overhead and an innocent-looking pile of fluffy white clouds in the west, which Whiting declared meant a thunder-storm later on. But no one was troubled about that. The big gray car was on its best behavior, and in less than half an hour they were back in the vicinity of the _Slow Poke_. After some hesitation, they decided on a spot to be set down and bade their new friend good-by. “Mind you look me up in the fall,” he reiterated. “I want to introduce you to some of the fellows I know; you’ll like them. Good-by and good luck. Hope you find your boat.” He was off again in a cloud of dust and the three turned and plunged into the woods. Their judgment was not in error, for after a minute or so they came out on the shore of the cove. Twenty yards away lay the _Slow Poke_. “Thank goodness!” said Roy, devoutly. “I thought--” But he didn’t tell what he thought. Instead, he stopped suddenly in his tracks, and Chub and Dick stopped with him. Sitting on the rail of the _Slow Poke_, his gun across his knees, was Farmer Ewing. CHAPTER XI MR. EWING IS OUTWITTED “Well, what do you think of that?” gasped Chub. The boys stared at Mr. Ewing in vexation, and Mr. Ewing regarded the boys with grim placidity.