“The course, fellows,” announced Bleeker, “is one that was marked out by the late-lamented Lenning, when he was king bee in the Gold Hill crowd. Look up the gulch, will you? See Apache Point, over there?”
Frank and Clancy followed Bleeker’s pointing finger with their eyes. A little more than a quarter of a mile away, the left-hand bank of the gulch rose into a sheer wall, some fifty feet high, with the water laving its base. The stream narrowed at the foot of Apache Point, so that there was room for no more than three canoes to pass it abreast of each other.
“Around the Point,” Bleeker went on, “the gulch banks widen out again, and this stretch of slack-water navigation widens with it. A quarter of a mile up the other side of the Point, on the left-hand bank, is a white flag. The course is around the bend, to the white flag and back again to the camp. We Gold Hillers know all about it, Merriwell, and if you and Clancy want to paddle over it before the race, we’ll wait for you.”
“Any snags in the course?” asked Frank. “Any obstacles we’ll have to look out for?”
“The whole course is as clean as a whistle. The only thing to remember is to hug the foot of the cliff when you go round the Point. The lead boat gets the pole, of course,” he laughed.
“I don’t think we’ll have to go over it, Bleek, before we race. We’re ready, now.”
“Then pick out your canoe and get ready.”
There was really no choice in the canoes, and Merry and Clancy selected one at random and got their paddles. Bleeker, Hotchkiss, Lenaway and Orr ducked into a tent and got out of their clothes and into bathing trunks. Frank and his red-headed chum had only to step out of their ordinary garments, for as underclothes they wore gymnasium togs.
Launching their canoe, they got into it and waited for the others to make ready and for the word to start.