Then Buster must have seen a great light, for he gave a loud laugh.
“Say, don’t feel like hitting him, Josh, because it’s only an echo!” he gurgled.
“Don’t you believe it!” snapped George. “No echo could ever repeat words as plain as that.”
“Try it yourself and see, George,” advised Jack, and, realizing that he was in a poor minority, George did give a shout, only to have it sent back with an abruptness and energy that startled him.
The doubter was apparently convinced, though he kept saying that he never would have believed it possible for an echo to repeat such things. As they were speeding along with the current they quickly passed beyond the magic range, and hence Buster received no answer when he shouted lustily at the rocky hillside.
As they had lost so much time that morning, it was decided not to make any stop at noon. They could manage on some cold lunch, and wait until night came along to do their cooking.
They frequently saw other boats on the river. Many of these were clumsy affairs and evidently owned by farmers, who were in the habit of getting their produce to market in this way. Occasionally they passed a small pleasure boat loaded with people, who, like most excursionists, waved their hands and handkerchiefs at the four comely lads aboard the chugging motorboat.
Seeing Jack, who had temporarily handed the wheel over to George, examining his little chart of the river, procured in Vienna, Josh came and dropped down beside him.
As usual, Josh bristled with interrogation points. He came of Yankee ancestry and never could pick up enough information to satisfy himself. There was always a yearning to “know” whenever Josh came around, and he would go straight to the heart of the matter without any beating about the bush.
“Making pretty good time, eh, Jack?” he went on to say as a prelude.