Bleeker had other uses for his breath, however, than wasting it on replies to the red-headed fellow in the other craft.
“Once more, Clan!” cried Merriwell. “Hug the cliff—we’ve got to!”
Half a dozen sweeps of the paddles and Merry and Clancy were leading. A few more sweeps, and Clancy sent their craft across the bows of their rivals.
They were on the inside now, those Farnham Hall boys, and paddling like fiends. A few moments more and they were under the shadow of the Point.
And then—something happened. Was it accident, or was it design? Intent on their work, none of those in the two canoes could tell; nor could the frantic lads on shore.
Clancy heard a crash and roar above him. A glance aloft showed a bowlder dropping downward from the top of the Point. To Clancy, it looked as big as a house, and in a flash he knew it must strike the canoe.
The red-headed chap’s heart jumped into his throat. For a heartbeat he sat powerless, stunned by what he saw. Then he roused up suddenly, with a yell:
“Jump, Merry! Jump for your life!”
On the instant, Clancy dropped his paddle and went overboard. His frantic plunge overturned the canoe, and Merry was in the water almost as soon as his chum.
The falling bowlder just grazed the overturned canoe, splashed into the waves and sent up a geyser of foaming spray.