“It’s Pet Peters himself. And he’s getting worried to know just what he’s going to do to save himself and the stolen canoe, too. I’d better end this agony with a rush, and here goes!”
So saying, he now headed directly for the other craft, rushing forward with furious speed that gave the finishing touch to the alarm of the pursued one.
In vain had Pet tried to outwit him; he had been caught every time, and forced to keep in the open. Even when he attempted to hold his own straight ahead it was to see the distance cut down steadily.
Before now he had tried conclusions with Frank Langdon, nor was he hankering after a repetition of his previous experiences. The memory of sundry bruises had never entirely left him; and it looked as though the other might be more angry on this occasion than ever before.
“Hold up there, you thief! I’ve got you cornered!” called Frank, as he pushed still nearer.
Pet ceased paddling. After all it was just as well, for he had lost hope of evading this persistent pursuer in the race.
He clutched his spruce paddle fiercely in his hands. If it came to the worst he could perhaps use the same as a weapon of defense. It had failed him in its legitimate channels, but could he give the other one smart blow on the head with its edge, no doubt Frank must be put out of the running.
And Pet Peters had no scruples on the score of delicacy. He was accustomed to rough methods of carrying his point. A blow on the head usually concluded any argument in which he might be engaged.
“Keep back, you!” he yelled.
Frank saw that he was now standing rather unsteadily in the canoe. He smiled grimly, for he knew that the game was in his hands. Any fellow who is so foolish as to stand upright in so frail a vessel places himself in a position where he is apt to receive a sudden and unexpected bath.