"These are the kind of fish the Indians live on during the winter,"
Tommy explained as he scraped the scales from his prize. "Only,"
he continued, "the Indians don't clean them at all. They simply
make a hole in the tail end of each fish and string them up like
beads on sticks which they set up in racks."
"I never did like cold-storage fish," Sandy declared, in a tone of
disgust. "They taste like dry corn meal!"
While the fish cooked and the boys sat in the protecting smudge of
the campfire, the sound of paddles was heard up the river. The
swish and splash came on steadily for a moment and then suddenly
ceased.
"I thought we were going to have company," suggested Will.
The boys listened for a time but no further sounds were heard.
"Now what would any one be doing in this wilderness?" Sandy asked.
"What would any one be sneaking around us for?"
"Perhaps they don't even know we're here!" argued George.
"With that great campfire going?" scoffed Tommy. "Why, they can
see the light of that fire for ten miles or more!"
"That's right," replied George. "I guess that fire wouldn't help
to hide our presence here any."
"Suppose I go and see what's doing?" asked Tommy.
"You know your failings, young man!" Will cut in.
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