“Good morning, Carry,” he called. And Dan was heard threatening that if he ever said anything like that again he would be tipped out of the canoe. “And this time,” added Dan, “I won’t jump in and rescue you!” Noon saw them opposite Beacon Point, and heading across the water they found a comfortable spot and drew the canoes up on to a tiny sandy beach. They had provided themselves with a cold lunch for the first meal and they ate it lying around on their elbows or stretched flat on their backs in the shade of a big white birch which fluttered its leaves above their faces. The lunch was principally sandwiches and gingerbread and apples, but it tasted better than any meal they had eaten for a long time, and Tom begged to be allowed to attack the other supplies after his share of the feast had vanished. He was heartlessly denied and presently fell asleep, where he lay and snored beautifully in four distinct keys for half an hour. Perhaps the others slept a little as well. The sun was delightfully warm and life held no cares. By one o’clock they were on their way again. Camps and their attendant landings, with here and there a hotel or boarding-house, became frequent along the shores, while in the distance launches and steam-boats shone like white specks against the blue water. Now and then a canoe or sailboat passed them with its merry party. “Seems to me,” said Dan, who was paddling at bow in Bob’s canoe, “that folks down here don’t have anything to do but float around on the water. It’s a sick way to spend vacation.” “What ought they to do?” asked Bob carelessly. “Anything so as not to be so plumb lazy. Look, there’s a swell camp over there, Bob.” “And that’s a dandy on the little island over there. Hey, Nelson, how’d you like to have to live there all summer?” “I wouldn’t kick. That’s swell, isn’t it? There are some mighty fine places along here. It’s prettier than Chicora in that way.” “Yes, but you’d soon get tired of having so many camps around you; it’s too crowded. What’s the point over there, I wonder.” And Bob pulled his map out for the fortieth time. “Shingle Point,” he announced. “Now, why the dickens do they call it that? It doesn’t look like a shingle, it doesn’t feel like a shingle, and it doesn’t smell like a shingle.” “You’re a silly chump, Bob,” said Dan. “It’s called Shingle Point because it scratches like a shingle, of course.” “How does a shingle scratch?” asked Nelson. “With its nails,” chuckled Dan. “Splash him for me, please,” Nelson begged, and Bob obligingly obeyed, sending a fine shower against Dan’s back. “I suppose that’s Clapboard Island there off Shingle Point?” asked Tom. “And that’s Shutter Cove yonder,” said Dan. “Well, that looks like a boarding-house on the hill,” added Nelson. “Maybe we could get a planked steak there,” Bob suggested.