“Quitter!” called Phil.
“Nothing of the sort—I’ve got common-sense,” was the retort.
“Tom is right,” said Frank Simpson, in a quiet voice. “We mustn’t overdo the thing. It is going to be a stiffish pull back, and we don’t want to be late for dinner—I don’t anyhow.”
They had rowed down to where the river widened into the lake. There was a Summer picnic ground near here, and on the higher slopes of land, back from the water, were a number of fine residences, the estates running down to the shore edge. Many of the places had boathouses.
As the boys came opposite one of these they saw a small motor-boat turn in toward a shelter, the doors of which were open. There was a lone man in the boat, and he skillfully directed her course across the current.
“Let’s pull over there and rest before going back,” suggested Sid, and the others agreed. They reached the boathouse and dock in time to see the man in the motor-boat close and lock the door, with his craft inside. Apparently he did not notice the boys, who were working to get in on the downstream side of the float, so they could be out of the current for a little while.
“There,” remarked the man from the motor-boat, as he walked out of the shore-door of the house, also locking that after him, “I guess things will be safe in there until I come back. I won’t be gone long. Maybe I ought to take them with me but they’re heavy, and I’ve got to go up hill—I guess I’ll leave them,” and he started up the slope from the river, toward a fine residence on the hill.
“He must have money in the bank—talking to himself that way,” remarked Tom, in a low voice.
“I wonder what it is he’s leaving in his boat?” spoke Phil.
“He trusts us, anyhow,” laughed Frank.