“That’s right,” chuckled Slim. “A good thing for you you managed to get them away from that kid while he was asleep, La Rue, or you wouldn’t have dared face the gang again.”
“Well, I guess not,” laughed Malvin. “But our troubles are over now, boys. We’ll move on to the Great Lakes and try our luck there. That gang of young whelps on the River Swallow broke up our game here, all right, bad luck to them.”
“We’ll take care of them later on, never fear,” snarled La Rue. “I’ve a score to settle myself with that Stetson brat. Ha! ha! that was a good joke, though, having his old man clapped in jail in Montreal. That was your trick, Slim.”
“Oh, these Canadian officials are such softies they’ll believe anything you tell ’em,” modestly declared Slim. “A telegram to the chief at Montreal was enough to turn the deal.”
“It was a good one, all right,” snorted Rawson.
“Well, let’s get aboard. We’ve got lots of gasoline. What’s our first stop, Rawson?” asked La Rue.
“Buffalo,” was the gruff rejoinder; “and you fellows want to lie low, too. I’ll bet there’s a hue and cry out after us right now.”
“You bet there is, and closer than you think,” exclaimed Ralph to himself.
The men climbed aboard. Rawson bent over the engine, and the next instant the craft began to move across the placid pool.
“Run hard now and cut ’em off,” cried the inspector. “Run as you never ran before for the small boat.”