“He has called for us,” said Scout Master Hall, “and there isn’t a minute to lose!”
Standing on the edge of the lake he gave his commands as coolly as an officer marshaling his forces for a charge. In a twinkling the two boats were afloat in the deep water which came close to the bank.
“There are twenty-one of us; each canoe will carry no more than eight; the other five must hurry along the shore to the doctor’s house.”
The lads stood breathless, waiting for the leader to name those who must walk. He promptly did so:
“Isaac Rothstein, Hoke Butler, Gerald Hume, Arthur Mitchell, Gordon Calhoun.”
It was a keen disappointment to the five, but there was not a murmur.
“Come on, boys,” called Hoke; “if we do our best we shall not be far behind them.”
His long legs carried him at a pace that made it hard for the others to equal. In Indian file the procession, with him in the lead, loped along the beach and was speedily swallowed up in the obscurity.
The crews of the canoes worked like beavers. In a twinkling the boys had adjusted themselves and in each boat the two who were handiest with the paddles plyed them vigorously. Scout Master Hall was seated in the stern of one, among his companions being Mike Murphy, Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes.
At the moment the two craft put out from shore, Mike Murphy repeated the exclamation—