Some of the cadets were so delighted with the success of Tom’s team that they took Tom on their shoulders and marched around the entire encampment with him.

“I tell you, Rockley feels sore,” said Sam, a little later.

“Around the belt?” asked Tom with a grin.

“I mean in his mind.  He and Lew Flapp are having a regular quarrel over the contest.  I guess Flapp lost some money.”

“Perhaps, if he has, it will cure him of betting,” put in Dick.

Sam and Tom had received permission to go to the upper end of the lake in one of the rowboats on the following afternoon.  Songbird Powell and Fred Garrison went along, and all took their fishing outfits and plenty of bait.

“Bring home a nice mess of fish,” said Dick, on parting with his brothers.  “Sorry I can’t go with you.”

“Oh, you’ll have company enough,” declared Sam.  “I heard that some of the country folks are going to visit the encampment to-day and perhaps those Staton girls will be among them.”

The four boys were soon on the way, two rowing at a time.  The weather was ideal, and the water as smooth as that of a mill pond.

“What a beautiful spot this is,” declared Fred, as they glided long.  “I’m sure Captain Putnam could not have selected a better.”

“I have already gotten some splendid pictures,” returned Powell, who possessed a good snap-shot camera, now lying on the stern seat of the boat.  “I’m going to take some more pictures to-day.”

On the way to the upper end of the lake Sam ’did a little fishing and brought in one bass of fair size.

“This makes a fellow feel like a true poet,” murmured Powell, gazing dreamily at the water, and then he went on: 

“I love to glide,
By the green-clad side
Of the glassy lake,
And there to take
My ease with book
Or line and hook,
And spend the day
Far, far away
From care and toil,
On Nature’s soil.”

“Just to listen to Songbird!” cried Tom.  “He grinds it out like a regular sausage-making machine,” and then he went on gayly: 

“I love to swim,
In Nature’s soil,
By the green-clad side,
Of a mountain wide,
And there to bake,
My little toes,
On a garden rose,
And take a hose,
And wet the lake
With a hot snowflake,
In the middle of June—­
If that isn’t too soon—­
And sail to the moon
In a big balloon—­”

“Oh, Tom, let up!” roared Fred.  “Talk about a sausage-making machine—­”

“And when in the moon,
I’d drive a stake,
And tie my lake
Fast to a star,
Or a trolley car,
Then jump in a sack
And ride right back—­”

“To where you belong,
And stop that song!”
finished Sam.  Oh, but that’s the worst yet.  Shall we duck him, Fred?”

“No, don’t pollute the water,” answered Garrison.

“He ought to be ducked,” came from Powell, in disgust.  “Whenever I have a poetic streak—­”