“The very thing,” chimed in about a dozen lads, who were walking with our three boys.
“Why not send a challenge to the Aquebogue fellows?” piped up little Joe Digby; “they have a patrol over there now—The Wolves, they call themselves. Maybe they would enter a team against us.”
“I guess they would,” agreed Rob. “I’ll write a challenge to-night. Let’s see, Howard Major is their leader, isn’t he?”
“That’s right. He’ll be sure to accept, too. Howard steered the Aquebogue bob-sled last year.”
“Yes, when we let Aquebogue win the cup,” laughed Rob, referring to a silver cup, the gift of the village boards of six villages, which was annually contested for. “This year us fellows want to wake up and win it back.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s the stuff.”
“We’ll do it, too,” several of the lads assured him, as the group came to a point where they separated and went their several ways. Paul Perkins had been an interested, if silent, participator in the plans, but when he found himself alone with his three friends he launched enthusiastically into a description of the kind of sled with which he was going to startle the community and their guests at the carnival. The lad had been spending odd hours over the construction of his winged glider, and he was pretty certain, he told them, that he had it perfected.
A visit to the Perkins’s wagon shed resulted in the exhibition of a business-like looking sled, with a wheel connected to the flexible steel runners with which to steer. From each side of the contrivance, a pair of canvas wings, spread over stout frames, extended for a distance of about ten feet. The frame was made as light as possible, and Paul was confident the glider would work.
“Tell you what we’ll do,” said Tubby, as they stood regarding the odd looking contrivance, “there’s a good full moon to-night. We’ll slip out of the village after supper and try it out on Jones’s Hill.”