“Dick’s scared silly, Trevor,” he shouted.
“Well, so’m I,” answered Trevor. “And so are you, only you won’t let on. The bally thing goes so fast that it makes you feel funny inside you. But it is fun, Carl. Look out for the bank!”
Over went the tiller again, and the yacht started on the starboard tack. The hills on either side were flying past, and now and then a cluster of houses were seen dimly for an instant, and then was lost to sight.
“What’s that ahead there?” asked Dick. Carl raised his eyes and followed the other’s gaze.
“Ice-yacht,” he answered. “Perhaps they’ll race us.”
“Perhaps they will,” muttered Trevor, “but if you go any faster when you race, I’ll get off the blooming thing and walk.”
“Bully boy!” cried Carl. “Feeling better, aren’t you?”
“Well, I fancy I’ve got some of my breath back, you know. But I don’t mind saying that I’d rather ride on a cyclone than this contrivance. And my feet are like snowballs!”
“So are mine,” echoed Dick. “And all the rest of me. But let’s ask ’em to race, Carl.”
The other yacht, which when first sighted had been a long distance up the river, was now but a short way ahead, and was almost motionless, nose into the wind, as though awaiting the arrival of The Sleet. While the latter boat was still an eighth of a mile distant a form sprang into view on the yacht ahead and a hand waved in challenge. Carl steadied himself on his knees and waved back.