From time to time one brother or the other glanced over his shoulder, not so much to set his course, for they could do that over the stern, having previously taken their range, but in order to note the aspect of the fast-gathering clouds which were behind them.
The wind, which had died out shortly after they had started on their row that morning, now sprang up in fitful gusts, with a rather uncanny, moaning sound, as if it was testing its strength before venturing to develop into a howling storm.
“Don’t you think it’s going to kick up a rumpus?” asked Andy, tired of keeping quiet.
“Um,” spoke Frank again, for his breath was needed to keep up his speed in the swells.
“There you go again—old silent-face!” and Andy laughed to take the sting out of his words. “Your tongue will get so tired being still so long that it won’t know how to wiggle when you want it.”
Frank smiled, and glanced over his shoulder again. He noted that the dock, which was their goal, was now a little more than half a mile distant. He could see several fishing boats and other craft making for the more sheltered part of the harbor. Frank was calculating the space yet to be covered, to decide when he should begin the final spurt, for, though the race was only a friendly one, such as he and his brother often indulged in, yet he wanted to win it none the less. He decided that it would not do to hit up the pace to the limit just yet.
“It’s a heap sight longer than I thought it was,” came from Andy, after a bit. “What say we call it off?”
“Not on your life” exclaimed Frank vigorously. “I’m going to finish whether you do or not—but you have to buy the sodas if I do.”
“I will not. I’ll finish, too, and I’ll beat you.”
Once more came a period of silent rowing. Then, whether it was because he pulled more strongly on one oar than on the other, or because of the drift of the current, and the effect of the wind, the younger lad suddenly found himself close to the boat of his brother.