Boarding schools -- Juvenile fiction; Boys -- Juvenile fiction; Football -- Juvenile fiction; Football stories
The driver grunted doubtfully and the sleigh swung from the turnpike
into a narrow lane that wound between pine and spruce. The branches
sometimes flicked their faces and spattered dry snow about them. The
lake came into sight again close beside them, its darkening surface
seeming now like a great sheet of shimmering metal. Then the jingling
bells ceased and there, in a small clearing, stood the camp, its modest
bulk silhouetted against the ice. A rustic sign overhung a little path
that led down to the cabin, and on it the word RESTHERE was printed.
Followed a busy five minutes during which the bags and rolls and
packages were carried to the cabin and the driver accepted his modest
fee of three dollars, promised faithfully to return for them four days
later and climbed back to his seat. There, having pulled three of the
robes about him and gathered his reins in hand, he paused to cast a
dubious look about the twilit surroundings.
“Mean to stay here all alone?” he asked.
“Sure,” agreed Hal.
“H-m,” said the man. “Well, every fellow to his taste. Too blamed
lonesome to suit me, though. Good evenin’. Get ap, Judy!”
The cabin was of boards and battens and weather tight. There was
one good-sized room for all purposes save cooking. The kitchen――a
kitchenette Bert called it――was tacked on behind. It was just big
enough for the stove, the wood box, and the cupboard and a wide shelf
along one side that served as a table. The cabin held everything they
needed for their four-day sojourn, save food, and that they had brought
along in generous quantities. Cot beds, plenty of woolen blankets,
kitchen utensils, stoneware dishes, even reading matter in the shape of
magazines several months old awaited them. There was a small fire place
and, outside, a rampart like pile of cordwood, chestnut, hickory and
birch. Hal viewed its snug comfort with a proud proprietory air, while
Bert, his hands in the pockets of his capacious knickers, opined that
it was “one swell joint,” and Joe, who had never so much as seen a camp
before, was reduced to an almost awed admiration.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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