“Well, I’ll be dud-dished!” exclaimed Springer. “It’s our friend, James Simpson, Esquire. Seems to me he’s planning to make a cuc-call at our camp.”
“A right good time for him to come around if he intends to provoke further trouble,” muttered Rodney. “I’d advise him to lower that sail and use his oars. I opine there’s going to be something doing in the hurricane line directly.”
“You bet,” agreed Piper, as the roaring sound increased with surprising rapidity. “Here she comes now.”
“Hold the canoe steady, Phil,” admonished the Texan.
With a shriek the wind swept over them, tearing the surrounding water into foam. In a twinkling, almost, it struck the sail of Simpson’s boat, and in another twinkling the tiny craft upset, pitching its occupant into the lake.
“I knew it, the chump!” cried Grant above the screaming of the wind. “He’s got his ducking ahead of the rainstorm.”
“Wonder if he can sus-swim?” shouted Phil apprehensively. “Don’t want to see the pup-poor feller drowned.”
“He sure ought to know how to swim, living near this lake,” returned Rodney. “Where is he, anyhow?”
“There! there!” cried Sleuth, pointing, as a head appeared some distance from the capsized boat. “Look at the idiot! See him throw up his hands! Stone and Crane are shouting to us. Great marvels! He can’t swim!”
Already, with a sweep of his paddle, Grant had pointed the canoe toward the overturned boat and the youth who, splashing wildly only a short distance from it, seemed quite unable to reach and grasp it for support.