There was a way and it was easy, for, in a secret session, Rolf,
Pete, and Van Cortlandt together sorted out the things needed. A
small tent, blankets, extra clothes, guns, ammunition, delicate
food for three months, a few medicines and toilet articles -- a
pretty good load for one canoe, but a trifle compared with the
mountain of stuff piled up on the floor.

"Now, Mr. van Cortlandt," said Rolf, "will you explain to your
mother that we are going on with this so as to travel quickly,
and will send back for the rest as we need it?"

A quiet chuckle was now heard from Big Pete. "Good! I wondered
how he'd settle it."

The governor and his lady saw them off; therefore, there was a
crowd. The mother never before had noted what a frail and
dangerous thing a canoe is. She cautioned her son never to
venture out alone, and to be sure that he rubbed his chest with
the pectoral balm she had made from such and such a famous
receipt, the one that saved the life but not the limb of old
Governor Stuyvesant, and come right home if you catch a cold; and
wait at the first camp till the other things come, and (in a
whisper) keep away from that horrid red Indian with the knife,
and never fail to let every one know who you are, and write
regularly, and don't forget to take your calomel Monday,
Wednesday, and Friday, alternating with Peruvian bark Tuesday,
Thursday, and Saturday, and squills on Sunday, except every other
week, when he should devote Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays to
rhubarb and catnip tea, except in the full moon, when the catnip
was to be replaced with graveyard bergamot and the squills with