Albert Paxton was another person who proved his enterprise.  Having visited the spot some days before, he had hired for his exclusive use throughout the duration of the picnic an old rowboat belonging to a shanty squatter; it was the only rowboat within a mile or two and Albert had his own uses for it.  Albert was the class lover and, after first taking the three chaperon teachers “out for a row,” an excursion concluded in about ten minutes, he disembarked them; Sadie Clews stepped into the boat, a pocket camera in one hand, a tennis racket in the other; and the two spent the rest of the day, except for the luncheon interval, solemnly drifting along the banks or grounded on a shoal.  Now and then Albert would row a few strokes, and at almost any time when the populated shore glanced toward them, Sadie would be seen photographing Albert, or Albert would be seen photographing Sadie, but the tennis racket remained an enigma.  Oarsman and passenger appeared to have no conversation whatever—­not once was either seen or heard to address a remark to the other; and they looked as placid as their own upside-down reflections in one of the still pools they slowly floated over.  They were sixteen, and had been “engaged” more than two years.

On the borders of the little meadow of baskets there had been deposited two black shapes, which remained undisturbed throughout the day, a closed guitar case and a closed mandolin case, no doubt containing each its proper instrument.  So far as any use of these went they seemed to be of the same leisure class to which Sadie’s tennis racket belonged, for when one of the teachers suggested music, the musicians proved shy.  Wesley Bender said they hadn’t learned to play anything much and, besides, he had a couple o’ broken strings he didn’t know as he could fix up; and Ramsey said he guessed it seemed kind o’ too hot to play much.  Joining friends, they organized a contest in marksmanship, the target being a floating can which they assailed with pebbles; and after that they “skipped” flat stones upon the surface of the water, then went to join a group gathered about Willis Parker and Heinie Krusemeyer.

No fish had been caught, a lack of luck crossly attributed by the fishermen to the noise made by constant advice on the part of their attendant gallery.  Messrs. Milholland, Bender, and the other rock throwers came up shouting, and were ill received.

“For heaven’s sakes,” Heinie Krusemeyer demanded, “can’t you shut up?  Here we just first got the girls to keep their mouths shut a minute and I almost had a big pickerel or something on my hook, and here you got to up and yell so he chases himself away!  Why can’t nobody show a little sense sometimes when they ought to?”

“I should say so!” his comrade exclaimed.  “If people would only just take and think of all the trouble we been to, it seems funny somebody couldn’t let us have half a chance to get a few good fish.  What chance they got to bite with a lot o’ girls gabbin’ away, and then, just as we get ’em quieted down, all you men got to come bustin’ up here yellin’ your heads off.  A fish isn’t goin’ to bite when he can’t even hear himself think!  Anybody ought to know that much.”