“We’ll wait all right! Long time comin’, too!” roared John, slapping his knees.
While Jack pulled Jim to shallow water, George managed to haul the now water-logged raft back to the English shore. The pasteboard cartons and drum were thoroughly soaked by this time and showed signs of collapse, but the soap-box withstood the elements in a fine manner.
During the third trial to cross the tempestuous seas, the cartons holding oatmeal and hominy spread out and the cereals floated down on the face of the creek. The pasteboard sides, now flattened out and soaked, were of no use, so they were kicked off; but in the sudden jerking Jack and George clutched each other madly, or they would have slid into the water for the third time.
“I guess Boston will never get a speck of that cargo!” laughed John, both hands behind his back holding large-sized decayed cannon-balls from the apple tree.
“What’ll you bet?” challenged Jack.
“Bet you three shots to your every one that you won’t land it!” taunted John.
“Take you up! If we land anything we take three shots at you. If you keep us from landing, you have three at us,” cried George, the fire of battle shining in his eyes.
“Here, John, you wade out and upset them,” whispered Anne mischievously.
“They won’t count that as fair!” exclaimed Martha.
“I’ve got a better idea. I’ll get up on that tree-trunk leaning out over the creek and you girls can hand me some heavy clumps of dirt, wood or rocks. I’ll drop it over on the raft so it will tip and roll off the rest of the cargo,” whispered John.