“What did you mean by running into us?” demanded Pete Sully, hotly, as he stalked up to Harry.
“What could we do when you blocked up the course?” retorted the owner of the Buster.
“We didn’t block up the course!”
“You certainly did,” interposed Jack. “You ought to be thankful that we didn’t run right over you.”
“It wasn’t fair!”
“It was fair,” said Harry. “But I’ll tell you what was not fair—tying that wash-line under my toboggan, and that’s just what one of your crowd did.”
“What’s that?” growled Bill Dixon. “We didn’t touch your confounded bread-shovel.”
“Some one tied that rope on,” said Andy, picking up the line in question. “It smells like your rope, Longman,” he went on, to a boy whose father was the captain of a schooner on the river. “It’s a regular tarred line.”
“See here, because you lost the race, you needn’t claim a foul!” growled Sully, wrathfully. “You may think——”
“Lose the race!” came in a chorus from those who had rode upon the Buster.