“And they sure have got the uniforms!” declared Fred, who overheard this remark from the other boat. “Gosh! you would think they were cadets from one of those little jerkwater monarchies in Europe. Such gold braid and buttons and such lace! It’s enough to make an ordinary American boy sick!”
“You’d better not tell them that,” said Jack quickly. “If you do they’ll say you’re jealous of them because our uniforms are so ordinary.”
“Well, you give me the good old gray and khaki every time,” came from Randy. “Both of those colors stand the wear a good deal better than that showy stuff will ever do.”
“Come on, fellows; jack her up!” called out Gif. “I’ll bet you a pint of peanuts we can beat you to the landing at Berry Island.”
“Make it a quart and we’ll go you!” shouted back Jack gayly.
“And they’ve got to be freshly roasted, too,” broke in Andy. “No stale old goobers from Rigoletto’s place where they’ve been lying in his show window for a month or two! They’ve got to be freshly roasted, right out of the whistling roaster!”
“Get ready—pull!” cried Gif, a few seconds later, and at this word of command from the head of the general athletic committee the four Rovers started up the lake with the other boat close by their side.
It was a beautiful day in early summer, and the surface of Clearwater Lake sparkled in the sunshine. There was scarcely any wind and consequently conditions were ideal for rowing.
Ever since they had come to the military academy the four Rover boys had spent more or less time on the river and the lake beyond, so they were no novices when it came to handling an oar. Jack set the pace, and his three cousins kept stroke with him in a fashion that could not help but win approval.
“Come on, fellows! We’ve got to beat ’em!” cried Gif Garrison to his rowing mates. “Pull now, and make every stroke tell!”