Pod watched the boys line up, and when all were even gave the word to go. Three paddles dipped simultaneously into the water and the canoes shot away up the river at a rapid pace. Pod paddled leisurely along in their wake, they having agreed to wait until he came up with them.
Tom took the lead at the start, with Fleet second and Chot last. The cat-boat to which they were racing was perhaps a mile up stream.
Fleet was puffing from his exertion at the end of a half-mile, but had the satisfaction of knowing that he led his chums by a full length. The big double paddle fell on either side with rhythmic precision. But Fleet was doomed to disappointment, for when within a quarter of a mile of the finish, both Chot and Tom paddled rapidly past him, smiled into his face, and crossed the finish line neck and neck.
“That was a put up job,” said Fleet. “But as long as the winner sets them up, I don’t care.”
“But the winner doesn’t set them up,” said Chot. “You remember we changed that to the loser at your suggestion.”
“That’s so; we did,” Fleet reluctantly admitted, after a moment’s thought. “In other words, little Fleetsy gets the warm end of the proposition all around.”
“That’s about the size of it,” said Tom.
“Methinks I see a village ahead. Thinkest thou, Tomsy, couldst get ice cream sodas there?” asked Chot.
“Ay, ay, me lord,” responded Tom, in a mock serious voice.
They paddled just enough to keep the canoes from drifting with the current down stream, and soon Pod caught up with them.