"Yes, I know how to paddle," admitted Sally. To tell the truth she knew how to run every species of boat her father owned, not even omitting the steam launches. "But we can't take Genevieve in a canoe. She won't sit still enough and Mother has forbidden it. Let's go out in my rowboat instead. Dad lets me use old 45 for myself any time I want, except in the very rush season. It 's kind of heavy and leaks a little, but I can row it all right." She indicated a boat far down at the end of the line.
"But I can't row!" exclaimed Doris. "I never learned because we 've always had a canoe up at Lake Placid in the Adirondacks where we 've usually gone."
"Oh, that does n't matter," laughed Sally. "I can row the whole three. You sit in the stern with Genevieve, and I 'll take you around the river to some places I warrant you 've never seen."
Filled with the spirit of the new adventure, the two hurried along, bearing a somewhat reluctant Genevieve between them, and clambered into the boat numbered "45" at the end of the line. Doris seated herself in the stern with Genevieve and the box of candy. And the baby was soon shyly cuddling up to her and dipping her chubby little fist into the box at frequent intervals. Sally established herself in the bow rowing seat, pushed off with a skilful twist of her oars, and was soon swinging out into the tide with the short, powerful strokes of the native-born to Manituck.
It was a perfect June afternoon. The few other boats on the river were mainly those of the native fishermen treading for clams in the shallows, and one or two dipping sailboats. Overhead the fish-hawks sailed and plunged occasionally with a silver flash into the river. The warm scent of the pines was almost overpoweringly sweet, and a robin sang insistently on the farther shore. Even the thoughtless children were unconsciously swayed by the quiet beauty of the day and place.
"Do you know," commented Doris, "I like it here. Really I like it a lot better than any other place we 've ever been. And I 've only been here two days. Do you live here all the year round?"
"Yes, but it is n't half so nice in winter," said Sally; "though the skating 's good when it 's cold enough. But I get awfully tired of all this all the time. I 'd love to live in New York a while. There 's the island," she indicated. "You can see that from most anywhere on the river. It 's pretty, but there is n't anything much interesting about it. I think I 've explored every inch of this river 'cause I 've so little else to do in the summer. Genevieve and I know more about it than the oldest inhabitant here, I reckon."
There was something about the way she made this last remark that aroused Doris's curiosity.
"Why do you say that?" she demanded. "Of course it 's all lovely around here, and up above that bridge it seems rather wild. I went up there yesterday in the canoe. But what is there to 'know' about this river or its shores? There can't be anything very mysterious about a little New Jersey river like this."
"You would n't think so to look at it," said Sally, darkly. "Especially this lower part with just the Landing and the hotel and the summer bungalows along the shore. But above the bridge there in the wild part, things are different. Genevieve and I have poked about a bit, have n't we, Genevieve?" The baby nodded gravely, though it is doubtful if she understood much of her older sister's remark.
"Oh, do tell me what you 've found?" cried Doris excitedly. "It all sounds so mysterious. I 'm just crazy to hear. Can't you just give me a little hint about it, Sally?"
But the acquaintance was too new, and the mystery was evidently too precious for the other to impart just yet. She shook her head emphatically and replied:
"No, honestly I somehow don't want to. It 's Genevieve secret and mine. And we 've promised each other we 'd never tell any one about it. Have n't we, Genevieve?"
The baby gravely nodded again, and Sally headed her boat for the wagon-bridge that crossed the upper part of the river.
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