“Well!” she said vigorously, “well!” And she looked indignantly at Dan. But the hero looked so penitent that she said no more; besides, it wasn’t necessary, for Mr. Clinton was already reproving him for adding to the lady’s distress, and, even if his eyes twinkled a good deal, what he said was straight to the mark. Meanwhile the Chicora had taken up her voyage again. Tom and Dan removed their shoes and sweaters and hung them near the boiler to dry, and tried to bring warmth into their chilled bodies by alternately turning faces and backs to the engine. The incident enlivened the party, and afterward the laughter was never quite stilled. Coming back “Babe” Fowler, who had lived all his short life by the salt water, proclaimed himself awfully thirsty and wished he had a drink. “Gee,” said a neighbor, “you must be awfully tony if you can’t drink this water!” The changing expression of “Babe’s” face was worth seeing. Finally: “Why, it’s fresh water, isn’t it?” he cried. “I was thinking it was salt!” And thereupon he had his drink, and was unmercifully teased by the fellows, one of whom recited, “Water, water everywhere, and not a drop for ‘Babe,’” all the way back to the landing. The stay-at-homes were having their evening dip when the launch bumped up to the pier, and the newcomers joined them in short order. The guest-table was filled again at supper-time, and Aunt Louisa was one of those who remained. After the meal was over Bob and Tom took her over to the village in one of the rowboats and got the Sunday mail. The wind had died down, and the lake was a great limpid pool in which the afterglow was reflected in changing hues of steel and copper and dull gold. Half-way back the bugle’s summons floated down to them and was echoed back from the farther shore. As they glided past Bear Island the boys of Wickasaw could be heard singing, and, although Tom pretended to think such doings beneath contempt, he followed Bob’s example when the latter rested on his oars. “Oh, it’s perfectly heavenly!” exclaimed Aunt Louisa softly. “Huh!” said Tom, “you wait till you hear Joe Carter sing ‘Bluebell’ on his banjo!” “That must be quite a stunt,” laughed Bob. “Oh, well, you know what I mu-mu-mean. I’ll ask him to sing at camp-fire. I’ll tell him you want to hear him, auntie.” “But I don’t think--” began Aunt Louisa. “Oh, he won’t mind; he likes to make a noise!”