“Not in season,” answered Rob laconically.  “Laws not up on them till November.”

“Oh, bother the law!” blurted out Merritt.  “However, I suppose if there wasn’t one there wouldn’t be any rabbits left.”

“I guess you’re right,” agreed Tubby.  “Still, it does seem hard to have to look at them skip about and not be able to take a shot at them.”

“Maybe we can set a springle and snare some,” hopefully suggested Tubby, as a way out of the difficulty; “that wouldn’t be as bad as shooting them, you know, and I can build a springle that will strangle them instantaneously.”

“No fair, Tubby,” laughed Rob.  “You know, a boy scout promises to obey the law, and the game law is as much a law as any other.”

Arrived at the L wharf, the boys found the Flying Fish and Captain Hudgins’ Barracuda waiting for them.  With much laughter they piled in—­their light-heartedness and constant joking reminding such onlookers, as had ever seen the spectacle, of a band of real soldiers going to the front or embarking for foreign stations.

With three ear-splitting cheers and a final yell of,
“Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!” the little flotilla got under way.

They arrived at the camping ground at the northeast end of the island before noon, and found that the “pioneers” appointed by Rob had done their work well.  Each tent was placed securely on a level patch of sandy ground, cleared from brush and stamped flat.  The pegs were driven extra deep in anticipation of a gale, and an open cook tent, with flaps that could be fastened down in bad weather, stood to one side.

A small spring had been excavated by the pioneers, and an old barrel sunk in place, which had filled in the night and now presented sparkling depths of cool, clear water.

“I suppose that water is all right, captain?” inquired Leader Rob, with a true officer’s regard for his troops.

“Sweet as a butternut, son,” rejoined the old man.  “Makes the sick strong and the strong stronger, as the medicine advertisements say.”

For the present, the cooking was to be done on a regular camp fire which was built between two green logs laid lengthwise and converging toward the end.  The tops of these had, under Commodore Wingate’s directions, been slightly flattened with an axe.  At each end a forked branch had been set upright in the ground, with a green limb laid between them.  From this limb hung “cooking hooks,” consisting of green branches with hooked ends at one extremity to hang over the long timber, and a nail driven in the other from which to hang the pots.

“That’s the best form of camp fire, boys,” said Commodore—­or perhaps we would better call him scout master now—­Wingate, who had accompanied the boys to see them settled.  “Now, then, the next thing to do is to run up the Stars and Stripes and plant the Eagle flag.  Then you’ll be all O.K.”

Little Andy Bowles made the woods behind them echo with the stirring call of “assembly,” and halliards were reeved on a previously cut pole, about fifteen feet in height.  The Stars and Stripes were attached, and while the whole company stood at attention and gave the scout salute, Scout Master Wingate raised the colors.  Three loud, shrill cheers greeted Old Glory as it blew bravely out against the cloudless blue.