“Hey! stop it, you! What d’ye mean trying to drown me? Let up, I tell you! Can’t you give a feller a chance? Somebody head me off, won’t you? Help! help!”
“There he comes!” shouted Jack, pointing.
“Well, what under the sun is he doing?” cried Herb.
“Since when did Buster put a motor in his dinky?” asked George, feebly.
“And ain’t he just making the time, though?” ejaculated Josh. “Just look at the way the foam flies up before the blunt bow of the dinky!”
Jack looked again and then gave a shrill laugh.
“Motor!” he exclaimed. “The only motor Buster is dealing with now has got fins and scales, and is in the water. Don’t you see what he’s doing, boys? He got a whooping big muskalunge at the end of his line. In some way Buster has got the line twisted around his body. And there he sits in the dinky, bracing his feet against a knee of the boat, and holding on for dear life, while the fish runs away with him.”
Then the others burst into a loud laugh, seeing the comical side of it. To Buster it was not so funny, however. He had been straining so long now that he fancied he might be pulled over the side of the cranky little snub-nosed craft any time; and with that cord wrapped around his arms, drowned because of his inability to swim, despite the cork life preserver.
“Quit your laughing, and chase after us, fellows,” he bawled, as he shot past the mouth of the cove; and at the same time sending a mute look of appeal toward his mates.
“Why don’t you get out your knife and cut loose?” shouted George, making use of his hands in lieu of a megaphone.