BY this time, the castaways were on the brink of starvation. They had feasted all the first day, and, with the prospect of more provisions coming, had eaten all they could hold on the second; that was no small amount, for the fresh air had quickened all their appetites. On the third they ate about all there was left for breakfast.
"We might as well," said Mrs. Crane, "for the boat or the wagon will surely be here by noon, or, at worst, by night."
But, thanks to unreliable Dave, the castaways' calculations were all wrong. Not a crumb arrived that day. For their noon meal, they drank some very weak cocoa, some broken crackers, and some crusts that Mabel had left at breakfast time. Mabel always left her crusts; though now that she had nothing else to eat, they tasted, as Mabel said, almost as good as cake.
"This won't do," said Mr. Black, putting his share of the fragments on Bettie's wooden plate. "I'm going to rob that Indian's wigwam and we'll have a real meal just as soon as we can cook it."
"If we were toads," offered Mabel, disconsolately eying her empty plate, "we could eat toadstools. I saw a lot of awfully queer ones along the road that leads to Barclay's Point."
"Toadstools?" questioned Mr. Black, pausing in his flight. "What were they like?"
"Very pointed at the top," returned Mabel. "Some of them were shaped just like big, smooth eggs and some were spread out flat like a parasol."
"What color were they?"
"Gray—sort of silvery. One of the big ones was all wet on the edges with shoeblacking—all drippy."
"Inky mushrooms!" exclaimed Mr. Black and Mrs. Crane, in one breath.
"Sarah," continued Mr. Black, "you go with Mabel and look at those 'toadstools' while I burglarize Dave's wigwam. Then we'll have a meal even if it doesn't happen to be mealtime."
"I guess," mourned Bettie, "we fed too many scraps to the squirrels."
The toadstools proved to be a very fine variety of "inky" mushrooms (long afterwards Jean learned that the proper name for this mushroom was coprinus atramentarius). They grew in generous clusters and it was great fun to gather the queer, slippery objects and pack them carefully in Mrs. Crane's basket, which was soon filled. Mr. Black returned with a number of potatoes, a saucepan, part of the Indian's venison, some salt, and a little flour.
"That," explained Mr. Black, "is to thicken the gravy. Here, Jean, hand me that frying-pan for my venison cutlets. Marjory, you may run to the beach with these potatoes and wash them. Take this saucepan with you and scour that, too—use sand. I'll build a good fire and get a pail of water. Here come the mushroom gatherers. What luck, Sarah? Phew! You have made a haul!"
"Are they really good to eat?" queried Bettie, distrustfully.
"One of the very best kinds that grow."
"And you're sure that these are that kind?"
"Perfectly sure. Sarah and I used to gather them when we were children, didn't we, Sarah? I'm glad there's a tiny corner of butter left to fry them in."
By the middle of the afternoon, this curiously acquired meal was ready; and, although the potatoes were plain boiled with their jackets on and the gravy was pretty lumpy, it all tasted very good indeed to the hungry castaways.
"I guess," said Mabel, taking most of the credit for the mushrooms to herself, "that I just about saved your lives."
"Or poisoned us," remarked Marjory, who wasn't quite sure that she liked mushrooms. "I'm glad, anyway, that we've enough meat and potatoes and gravy left for another meal."
"That venison," said Mr. Black, beaming at his satisfied family, "was certainly good."
"Mr. Black," queried Henrietta, her black eyes twinkling saucily, "didn't I hear you say that you were going to have Dave arrested for getting game out of season? What happens to people that eat it out of season?"
"They get arrested, imprisoned, and fined," said Mr. Black, "provided the game warden catches them. I'm glad you asked that question, Henrietta. Girls, you are not to mention this venison in town or to any chance visitor that may come this way. And don't point out that wigwam to any stranger—there are too many evidences of Dave's crimes about the place. Besides, they're on my property—they might hold me responsible."
"Particularly if they caught you with the bones on your plate," remarked Mrs. Crane, dryly. "And, in any case, you stole that venison."
"Dave owes me a lot more than this for rent," returned Mr. Black. "But we won't have to break any game laws if Saunders sends the fishing tackle I ordered. There are three good meals a day swimming about in our own river."
"What," asked Bettie, "is that net for—the one that Dave left on the beach? Why can't you fish with that?"
"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Black, "that is fishing tackle. But that's against the law, too. It's to stretch across the river for trout; but that form of sport isn't permitted. Still——"
"Peter, you wouldn't!" protested Mrs. Crane.
"Sarah, I would—if it were necessary to keep us from hunger. But if I ever do—girls, whatever I do, you must remember about that game warden."
"We will," promised Henrietta.
"We will," chorused the others.
And when the time came, they did; but you shall hear about that after awhile.
The castaways were up bright and early the next morning. For one thing the mosquitoes troubled them; hitherto the light breeze blowing across their camp ground had kept these pests away; but the night had been unusually still and the tantalizing insects had discovered the sleeping campers. For another thing, everybody wanted to be up and as much dressed as possible when the boat or the wagon should come. This uncertainty as to whether relief would arrive by land or approach by water added very considerably to the excitement. It wasn't possible for the girls to do much of anything except to run by turns to the spot whence one could look down the road and to that other spot from which one could view the lake. Unfortunately there was no one spot that commanded both these avenues of approach.
Just at noon, a shrill screech from Marjory, prancing precariously on the edge of the bank, announced that relief was in sight.
"A ship—a ship!" shrieked keen-sighted Marjory.
"Where away?" demanded Mr. Black.
"There she blows!" quoted Marjory, employing the only other nautical term she could call to mind and pointing with an extended forefinger.
"That's not a whale—that's a boat," scoffed Henrietta, who had traveled. "It's whales that blow."
"I don't care," returned Marjory. "And boats do too, when they have whistles. Anyhow, I saw it first—— Look out, Mabel!"
But the frail edge of the bank had already crumbled under weighty Mabel, who, unexpectedly, shot downward to the beach. No harm was done, however, for the sand was clean and soft.
"Mabel," laughed Mr. Black, "you'll have my whole hundred-and-twenty acres in the lake if you don't stop tumbling off the edge of my property. This isn't the first time you've taken a large slice off the landscape."
"It's about the ninth," admitted Mabel, scrambling back to the grassy top. "I'm always forgetting how easily it breaks away."
"That's because it sticks out a little over the top," explained sage Jean. "In very stormy weather the waves wash against the bank and scoop it out."
"I suppose that is our boat," said Mr. Black, rubbing his chin, "and I hope my razor's on it—I must look like a pirate by this time, or a tramp."
Coatless Mr. Black, without his daily shave and with his broken suspenders mended with odd bits of twine, certainly did look rather unlike his usually neat self.
"That boat isn't coming very fast," complained Marjory.
"It's a very clear day," explained Mrs. Crane, "so you can see a long distance. That boat is probably several miles away."
In spite of their impatience, the boat remained several miles away for a long, long time.
"If that is a boat," said Mr. Black, "it's the very slowest one on Lake Superior."
"Perhaps," suggested Jean, "it's going the other way."
But the boat was neither going nor coming. The engine had balked; and Captain Berry, for it really was Captain Berry, was waiting, as he had often waited before, for his defective electrical apparatus to get good and ready to work.