“Yes, and you try to do lots of things you aren’t capable of,” responded Dick, “and judging motor-boats is one of them.”
“Whereupon,” murmured Chub, “our hero bent manfully at his oar.”
“How long will it take to get it?” pursued Roy.
“About six days the man said,” answered Dick. “If you fellows think it’s all right I’ll send for it to-day.”
“I don’t see why it shouldn’t be all right. Do you, Chub?”
“Well, it’s nice to be able to go fast, you know, and I suppose that a boat with eighteen feet can go faster than one with only sixteen. If you could afford it, Dick, it would be nice to get a centipede boat that could do about a mile a minute.”
“Oh, cut it out,” laughed Roy, “and head her in toward the point, Chub. Funny how much easier she paddles now.”
“We’re out of the current, probably,” answered Chub. “Shall we paddle around the point to the cove or—”
But at that instant Roy set up a howl of laughter, pointing speechlessly down the stream. Dick and Chub turned. Four or five hundred yards away, drifting gaily away from them, was the rowboat containing the tent. Chub looked hurriedly behind him.