Then I went back to camp, and told the boys
there was a tolerably interesting pond near by, if they cared for such
things.
At first they did not, but when I had thrown in a few lies about the
brilliant hues of the water, and the great number of swans, they laid
down their cards, left Lame Dave to look after the horses, and
followed me back to see. Just before we crossed the last range of
hills we heard a thundering sound ahead, which somewhat astonished the
boys, but I said nothing till we stood on a low knoll overlooking the
lake. There it lay, as peaceful as a dead Indian, of a dull grey
colour, and as innocent of water-fowl as a new-born babe.
"There!" said I, triumphantly, pointing to it.
"Well," said Bill Buckster, leaning on his rifle and surveying it
critically, "what's the matter with the pond? I don't see nothin' in
_that_ puddle."
"Whar's yer swans?" asked Gus Jamison.
"And yer prismatic warter?" added Stumpy Jack.
"Well, I like _this!_" drawled Frenchwoman Pete. "What 'n thunder d'
ye mean, you derned saddle-coloured fraud?"
I was a little nettled at all this, particularly as the lake seemed to
have buried the hatchet for that day; but I thought I would "cheek it
through."
"Just you wait!" I replied, significantly.
"O yes!" exclaimed Stumpy, derisively; "'course, boys, you mus'
_wait_.
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