“We are not as well matched up as they are,” panted Ned Lowe, who was by far the poorest rower of the bunch. “Those Rovers have been rowing together ever since they came to the Hall.”
“Don’t growl, Ned! Row!” returned the leader, and then the cadets in the second boat did their best to outstrip their rivals.
It was certainly a spirited race and well worth watching. But no other craft was in sight, the two rowboats apparently having that portion of the lake entirely to themselves. The aeroplane which had attracted the rowers’ attention had glided away in the distance and they could no longer hear the roar of the motor.
Berry Island was little more than a quarter of a mile away. It was for the most part very rocky, but at one end there was a somewhat sandy beach where the boys occasionally went in bathing.
“Say, it wouldn’t be a bad stunt to go in swimming after this race,” puffed Randy, as he bent over his oar.
“No use to go in when you’re all tired out and in a sweat,” declared Fred, who on account of his stoutness found it rather difficult to keep up with the others.
The Rovers had forged ahead, and it looked very much as if they would win the race when suddenly Randy began to drag. Then he lost his stroke and that threw his brother out of stroke, too, and this caused the rowboat to swerve from its course and the craft under Gif Garrison’s directions shot ahead.
“Hi! what’s the matter with you?” cried Jack, in some vexation.
“My oar caught on a rope or some bit of seaweed,” declared Randy. “It’s gone now,” and he and his brother proceeded to right themselves. Then they caught the stroke and went forward as before.