“Passing Chimney Island. You can make it out off there to the left.”
“Not up to Windmill Island yet?”
“Not yet. Anyhow, we won’t go near it going up. I’ll pass it on the return trip, though. We can make better time by striking the current there.”
The remainder of the journey to Cardinal, a rather sleepy, though fairly populous, Canadian town, was made without incident. As they came abreast of the town dock, which was brilliantly illuminated with electric arc lights in expectation of the arrival of the steamer bound down the river for Quebec, they noticed the crowd idly gathered there. It was ready for any excitement and broke into a cheer as the fast boat came sweeping up to the dock. Then, at a signal from Ralph, the River Swallow suddenly slackened speed, churning the waters whitely with its reversing propellers, and eventually came to a standstill with the precision of an auto being driven up to the curb.
It was a fine bit of boat-handling that the spectators were quick to recognize and applaud.
Malvin, bow line in hand, leaped ashore as the River Swallow glided up, and Hansen equally quick, for the man was a good sailor, hopped nimbly about, dropping fenders to prevent the racing motor boat’s sheeny sides being scratched or marred by contact with the timbers of the dock.
“Good bit of work that, lad,” said a grizzled old man on the dock, as the boys came ashore, all dressed in natty yachting garments, visored caps, blue coats, white flannel trousers and white canvas shoes.
“Thank you,” laughed Ralph. “I guess my engineer was as much responsible for it as I.”
“Ah-hum,” said the old man. “I used to handle a boat once, but now I ain’t fit for nothing but just night watchman at the grain elevator yonder,” and he pointed to a towering structure that loomed against the dark sky.
Malvin and Hansen had been left in charge of the River Swallow. Arm in arm the three boys started up the street. But after they had gone a short way, Harry suddenly declared that he had left something he wanted in the cabin.