"I told you what would happen," said Fred exultantly. "I would like to run away from that boat in a race. There isn't a boat on the St. Lawrence I would like better to beat."
"But you don't even know she is going to be on the St. Lawrence or in that race," suggested John.
"That's right. That's right," said Fred dolefully. "There's always somebody taking the joy out of life. You mark my words, that boat is going to the St. Lawrence and we'll find her in the race when we leave the stake."
"I hope so," said Grant. "It will be a great race if she's in it! But honestly, Fred, if you knew a little more about steering a boat I think you could win from her. How would it do for you to get somebody to steer, the day of the race?"
"That's right," spoke up George quickly. "All the Black Growler needs is a pilot."
"That--is--most--certainly true," said John slowly, winking at Grant as he spoke.
"Huh," spoke up Fred. "It's a pity there isn't enough gray matter somewhere in this crowd to spell me at the wheel. I have run all the way from New York and I'm tired and yet there isn't a fellow here who is able to steer this boat."
"Beg your pardon," said John. "Ill steer her with great gladness."
"I don't doubt your 'gladness,'" said Fred. "What I'm afraid of is your ability. If it was Grant now steering and we struck a rock he would never own up that that wasn't the very place he was steering for. However, String, take hold here awhile and give me a rest."
"Where are we going to stop for dinner?" inquired George. "This mad race has brought on an attack of hunger with me."