It does not take long for seven practical campers to get their kit and canoes in shape to pitch canvas for the night, and just as the sun dropped behind a rim of dense fir forest, “the Saucy Seven,” as the boys had christened themselves, lighted their first camp fire and hung their kettle for supper.  The two tents were already up, white and gleaming against the lake line, the three cruising canoes were safely beached for the night, blankets were already spread over beds of hemlock boughs, and the goodly smell of frying bacon arose temptingly in the warm, still, twilight air.  Seven hungry mouths took a long time to be satisfied, but the frying-pan and the tea-pot were empty at last, and the boys ready to turn in early, after their long journey and busy settling.  The first night in camp is always a restless one.  The flapping tent, the straining guy ropes, the strange wild sounds and scents seem to prop your eyelids open for hours.  The night birds winging overhead, the far laugh of loons across the waters, the twigs creaking and snapping beneath the feet of little, timid animals, the soft singing of the pines above the canvas, these things get into one’s blood, one’s brain, and almost before you know it the night is gone, and a whole chorus of song arises with the coming of day.  There is nothing in all the world more enjoyable than tumbling from your blankets, to unlace the “flap” of the tent, to fling it wide and step out into the soft grey world before sunrise, to swallow whole breaths of fresh, sweet morning air; then to plunge into a still, cool lake, and drive sleep from the corners of your eyes, as the winking sun drives night from the forest.  Then another enjoyable thing is to have Tom, Dick or Harry hustle about and get the kettle boiling and fish frying while you are yet plunging about like a frog, and by the time you have rushed ashore, and into your shorts and sweater and “wigwam” shoes, the aforesaid pleasant persons have breakfast ready, and you come around just in time to make away with vast bowls of coffee, and unlimited fish and toast.

This is all very well, if you have the whole lake and its outletting river all to yourselves, with no one to scare the fish and game, and none to trespass on your camp ground; but picture to yourselves the consternation that assailed the boys when, the following night, the train brought in another camping crowd, that trailed up the shore with a great deal of fuss, and pitched camp directly across the point from them—­a crowd of at least ten men.  No rollicking boys there, all big, full-grown men with beards and whiskers, with a dozen gun cases, stretcher camp beds, and some scarlet velvet rugs—­actually rugs.  The boys just stood and stared, then sneered.

“Nice ‘Saucy Seven’ those chaps will make of our holiday,” groaned one of the grads. “‘Sorry Seven,’ we’d better call ourselves, I say, and to-morrow I’m for moving, striking camp at daylight and getting away from that gang that camps with rugs.”  The last word took on the expression of an article of actual disgrace.  “Hello!  They’re running up the colors,” interrupted Bob.  “It’s a Union Jack, all right.  Perhaps they’re not such rummies, after all.”