“He might!” cried Ned, eagerly. “Why?”
“Because, a little while ago,” said the man; “I saw some sort of a craft go up the river, away on the other side. She didn’t show a gleam, and it was so dark that the only way I glimpsed her was when she came in range with our signal lamp on the post,” and he pointed to a lantern set to guide craft to the club float. “At first I thought it might be some fishermen in a big rowboat,” the man went on; “for I didn’t hear any motor, but when I got that view of her I saw it was built different from a small craft. Yet there wasn’t any noise.”
“The Dartaway runs as quietly as a sewing machine at some speeds,” said Jerry. “If that was Noddy he must have slowed down purposely on passing here.”
“And I’d be willing to put up a sugar cookie against a cent that it was him!” exclaimed Bob.
“Don’t, Chunky, you might lose, and then you’d be hungry,” laughed Ned. “But it does look suspicious.”
“Come on then!” cried the tall lad. “We’ll keep up stream for a while!”
Once again they were on their way, cutting through the black water, illuminated by the gleams of their lamps and the searchlight.
They had gone perhaps four miles above the Riverview club house when, as they shot around a bend in the stream, little Andy Rush, sitting beside Jerry, sprang up, grasped the arm of the steersman, and cried out:
“There he is! I see your boat! Go to it—catch him—ram him—run him down! Whoop! See where the searchlight reflects on the stern of that boat!” and he pointed ahead.
Jerry, who was steering with one hand, and manipulating the searchlight with the other, swung the gleaming shaft of brilliancy so that it took in the craft ahead. Then he gave a shout of delight.