“You’re the bluffer!” replied Fleet, and gave chase to the little fellow. He caught him about fifty yards from the knoll, then the two ran a foot race back to camp, Pod winning by a narrow margin.
“You can’t run, you big porpoise,” he taunted.
“Maybe not,” was Fleet’s reply, “but I can eat better now. I needed a little violent exercise.”
The boys soon sat down to bread, cold beans and coffee—not a very substantial meal, but one eminently satisfactory when campers-out wake up hungry.
Fifteen minutes after the meal was over everything was packed into the canoes and the boys again shoved off into the river and headed up stream.
Pod continued to emit a few groans at intervals, but after a while paddling became easier, and the groans finally ceased. The boys set an easy pace for the little fellow, and the canoes turned bend after bend of the mighty river. Catskill was soon passed, then Hudson on the opposite side, and soon Athens came into view. The boys soon rounded a big bend above Athens, and with the sun behind a cloud and all feeling in fine fettle, Fleet proposed a race.
“I’d hate to race you,” said Pod.
“Why?”
“Because you take the sting of defeat too hard.”
“Now, you’re joking again. What do you other fellows say? Shall we race?”