A number of motor boats had already landed their occupants, but, strange as it may seem, none of these cadets had seen the collision between Pud Hicks’ craft and the Jocelyn, due, no doubt, to the fact of there being so many boats making it necessary for every one in command to pay strict attention to how he was fashioning his course across the lake.
“Hello! Why, you’re dripping wet!” exclaimed Fatty Hendry, the stoutest lad in the school, as Jack, the first to land, leaped on the dock. “Whatever happened? Did you fall overboard?”
“We had an accident,” answered the young major.
“Hello, Andy and Randy are wet, and so is Phil Franklin!” put in Dan Soppinger, another of the chums.
“Anybody hurt?” questioned Ned Lowe, a cadet who was quite a singer and who generally led the cadets in their school songs.
“I had my fingers pinched, but it didn’t amount to much,” answered Spouter Powell. “But something pretty bad happened,” he went on.
“What was it?” questioned a dozen cadets at once, and then several added quickly: “Where is the silver trophy? Weren’t you to bring it over?”
For a moment there was a silence that was intense. Nobody seemed to be willing to break the bad news. Even Pud Hicks bent his head away and pretended to be at work over the engine of the motor boat.
“Well, we might as well tell the truth,” announced Gif at last. “The silver trophy is at the bottom of the lake.”
“At the bottom of the lake!”