Out of the boathouse near by came Bob Hartwell.
"I've been watching you fellows," he called.
"That's fair enough," Dick answered.
"You're doing some better than you did this morning," Hartwell went on. "You've almost got our stroke."
"Almost?" repeated young Prescott, raising his eyebrows. "Haven't we improved a good deal on your Preston High School action?"
Bob Hartwell began to laugh.
"You fellows from Gridley are always world beaters, aren't you?" he demanded good-humoredly. "At first, I thought it was all brag on your part, and that you fellows were suffering from enlarged craniums complicated with bragitis. But now I begin to see that you talk confidently just in order to convince yourselves that you can't be beaten at anything. And I don't know that it's such bad 'dope,' either, as the sporting writers put it."
"Let's hear you try some," urged Dick.
"Brag?" asked Hartwell. "No; I don't believe I have mastered the idea well enough to do any really sincere bragging as yet. However, if you ever beat us at anything except brag, then I'm going to try to copy your form in the boasting line."
By this time Dick & Co. were dragging their canoe up onto the float.