“That would indicate something pretty serious. Perhaps they’ve had a fight with those hoboes, or it may have been our wild man. But what makes you think such a thing, Will?”
“I counted seven of them when they came, and so did Bluff. Now there are only six in sight, and as you say, three of them are fit for the hospital. Where can the seventh be?”
“Perhaps the hoboes got him, just as they did Jerry. If so, what under the sun can their scheme be? Why load down with a variety of Centerville’s leading citizens when they find it so hard to provide food for themselves?”
“I give it up. The conundrum is too much for me. But I think my idea is more apt to cover the truth, and that the seventh boy is laid out in the boat, wounded, or perhaps dead,” continued Will, in an awe-struck tone.
“Oh! I hope not the latter. They’re a rough bunch, but they’ve had little opportunity to learn better, and we mustn’t be too hard on them. Such fellows can do things that would be little short of a crime for those of us who have decent homes and indulgent parents. Bluff seems to be coming along rather slowly, don’t you think?”
As Frank said this his companion turned the glasses upon the canoe.
“Something has happened to him. Perhaps his paddle has broken; I remember it gave way while we were coming here, and he spliced it yesterday. Yes, that must be what ails him,” he exclaimed.
“That’s too bad,” observed Frank, looking at the other boats, as though wondering whether it might be worth while to launch one, and speed out on the lake to the assistance of the chum who was coming.
But the distance was too great, and he could not hope to reach the scene before whatever was fated to happen had occurred.
“Why do you say that Bluff could get here with only a piece of his paddle?” remarked Will.