“You mind your own business, Anderson,” came from the bully, “or I’ll make you.”
“It’ll take more than you to make me,” responded Nat boldly, for more than once he had come into conflict with Snaith and did not fear him.
“It will, eh? Well, if I can get out of this boat——”
“Aw, go on! Row if you’re going to!” exclaimed Sam. “Think I haven’t anything to do except stay here and start this race? You challenged Jack, now go ahead and beat him—if you can.”
“Yes, come on,” added Jack, a tall, good-looking, bronzed youth, who sat on the seat in the small boat, impatiently moving the oars slowly to and fro.
“Oh, I’ll beat you,” said the bully confidently. “You can give the word whenever you’re ready, Chalmers.”
“Ah! that’s awfully kind of you, really it is,” said Jack in a high, falsetto voice, which produced another laugh.
Dock Snaith scowled at Jack, but said nothing. There was a moment’s delay, while Sam looked down the course to see if all was clear on Rudmore Lake, where the contest was taking place.
“I’m going to fire!” cried Sam.
The two contestants gripped their oars a little more firmly, they leaned forward, ready to plunge them into the water and pull a heavy stroke at the sound of the pistol. Their eyes were bright with anticipation, and their muscles tense.