"Oh, must we go?" cried they all.
"It is a pity, isn't it? But this would hardly do for a night's lodgings; and if we are to sleep at home, we must take the necessary steps."
Slowly they gathered themselves up from their pine bushes, and shook themselves; literally and figuratively, I might say.
"What are you going to do with your oyster shells, Fenton?" his uncle demanded.
"I don't want to do anything with them," said the boy.
"You always want to be a gentleman."
"What has that to do with it?"
"A gentleman never needlessly annoys anybody."
"Nobody comes here," said Fenton grumblingly. But they all laughed so at him that he pocketed his ill-humour and took his share in carrying the wrecks of the feast down to the creek side.
Then with the tide they swept up the river. I can never tell you how pretty it was. The day had kept its character of clear quiet beauty without change; and now as the sun began to get lower in the western sky, and shadows stretched along under the shore on the river and fell in lengthening patches or lines from hill-tops and trees, it did not grow cold. Quiet and sweet the air was, even on the water; and the rowers dipped and raised their oars in steady time, and in silence.
Nobody wanted to talk. They passed the island or promontory a little above Fort Montgomery, passed on and on, keeping the mid-stream now, passed Gee's Point, saw the boat-house looming up before them,--and were at home.
The very next day it rained.
THE END.