But before I started I had another adventure. I took off my shoes and stockings and everything except my underclothes. But of course, that wasn’t the adventure. It was a dandy adventure, but you have to wait, and if it rains to-morrow so we can’t go trailing, I’ll write some more. I think it’ll rain to-morrow. CHAPTER VII WEETONKA, THE TERRIBLE CHIEF Of course you can tell when you look at the map where the creek came from. It came from Dutch Creek and Dutch Creek flows into the Bridgeboro River, and Bridgeboro River rises in the northern part of some place or other and takes a—some kind of a course—and flows into New York Bay. Once I got kept in, in school, for not knowing that. But how should I know where this creek went? It _came_—that was enough for me. I should worry where it went. Before I started to swim I decided I’d go under and try to find out what it was that I’d been standing on. Because I had to thank it. A boy scout is supposed to be grateful. So I ducked and groped around in the marshy bottom and I felt something hard with a point to it. I had to come up for air, then I ducked again and felt around over it and under it. I joggled it with both my hands and it budged—not much but a little. Then I came up for air and went down and gave a good tug at it. I guess it was just kind of caught in the mud and weeds for after I pulled some of these away a lot of bubbles came up, and then I got hold of one end of the thing and it stuck up slantingways out of the water like an alligator’s mouth. Oh, gee, it was all slimy and had moss growing to it and it was black and hard. I was crazy to find out what it was and I swam around the end of it, bobbing it up and down. Then I sat on it and rocked it and it joggled. When I straddled it, it went down with me and when I jerked it, it seemed to get loose a little. The end that was sticking up wasn’t very big around, only it was terribly slippery. Anyway, I sat on it and tightened my legs around it just like a fellow does with a balky horse, and then I began jouncing up and down like on a seesaw. Pretty soon the other end came up and, oh, boy, didn’t I get dumped off into the water. It looked like a slimy old log floating. I gave it a turn and then—_g-o-o-d night_—what do you think it was? It was a regular Indian dug-out. I guess maybe it was a hundred years old and you can see it now, if you ever come to Bridgeboro, because it’s in the Museum of our Public Library and you’ll know it because it’s got “Presented by 1st Bridgeboro Troop, B. S. A.,” on it. I guess maybe it was about fifteen feet long and as soon as I cut into it with my scout knife, I saw that it was made of cedar and it wasn’t rotten—not so much, anyway. Jiminies, that’s one good thing about cedar; it lasts forever under water.