“That’s exactly what I’ll be glad to do. Any time you say and where you say we’ll show you what a regular boat can do that doesn’t spend its time running other people down,” called Frank quite coolly.
“What’s that?” called Cunningham threateningly, getting out from the cockpit as the two boats lay alongside each other.
Frank was equally ready, and saw that a lack of movement on his part might be misinterpreted. Out he stepped from the cockpit of the Rocket and started toward the side.
“I said this boat was ready for a race any time, and I said it was not in the nasty habit of trying to run into other people. Did you get me plainly?”
“Race you any time you say, then. Better put two or three more engines into your rowboat,” again sneered Cunningham, as he stepped back into the cockpit of the Speedaway.
With that he threw the motor into gear and moved away from the Rocket, which now slowly turned its nose upstream.
Frank and Lanky were both quiet. Wallace wanted to talk, but he knew Frank well enough to know that the young captain of the Rocket did not wish to say anything. Under such conditions Frank Allen was always most quiet.
The afternoon sun was slanting its way down into the west and the cooler breezes of the river were flitting past their tousled heads, cooling them off a bit after the rather exciting moments they had had.
It was just at dusk that the boys came to Northeast Bend in the Harrapin and saw the island for which they were headed.
As quickly as it was possible to do, without taking too many chances on injuring the craft, Frank brought it up to the landing with the engine dead. Lanky leaped ashore and tied to the landing post, while Frank made sure he had the note in his pocket before stepping off.