“Ouch! My fingers!” came in a wild yell from Spouter Powell. He had had the digits of his left hand severely pinched when the two craft came together.
“The trophy went overboard!” groaned one of the other cadets. “Andy and Randy took the silver vase with them!”
“Never mind the trophy!” interrupted Jack quickly. “If only they are not hurt!” he added fervidly.
The youthful major had scarcely spoken when a head bobbed up on the surface of the lake about fifty feet away. It was Andy Rover, and he struck out somewhat feebly for the motor boat.
“Andy! Andy! Are you all right?” yelled Jack.
“I—I guess so!” gasped his cousin.
“Where is your brother?” screamed Fred. He was in mortal terror, fearing Randy had been seriously hurt and gone to the bottom.
The words were scarcely off his lips when the waters of the lake parted once more and Randy Rover reappeared. He threw up a hand feebly.
“Help! Help!” he gasped out. “Somebody help me!”
“He’s got a cramp, or something!” exclaimed Jack. “I’m going after him. Bring the boat over,” and without further ado he balanced himself on a seat of the motor boat and then dove overboard in the direction where his cousin had appeared. Randy’s head and hand had gone down slowly, and now he was once more out of sight.