“Isn’t that queer?” exclaimed Grant. “It seems to work though. Try it again, Pop.”
Again George scratched the mast and once more a puff of wind caught their sail. The Balsam was now several feet ahead of her rival and rapidly approaching the finish.
“Don’t do it any more, Pop,” urged Fred. “At least don’t do it as long as we are ahead. If they catch up to us try it again. Of course it’s all luck, but it is certainly strange, isn’t it?”
“It surely is,” agreed John. “How do you account for it?”
“You can’t account for it,” exclaimed Grant. “You don’t suppose that scratching the mast really makes the wind blow, do you? It has just happened that way, that’s all.”
Nearer and nearer the two boats came to the finish. Waiting for them was Mr. Maxwell, seated in one of the canoes, on a line with the tape.
“A little more sheet, String,” said Fred. “That’ll do.”
“They’re almost up to us,” whispered John, doing as Fred had ordered. “Let Pop scratch the mast again.”
George was eagerly awaiting a signal to do this very thing. Fred nodded to him, and using both hands this time George scratched the mast lustily. Call it coincidence or luck or whatever you like, a strong puff of wind struck the Balsam almost immediately. She heeled over and for the first time in a half-hour made such speed that it was possible to hear the water rippling under her bow.
“Here we go!” cried George lustily, and with a rush the Balsam swept forward and crossed the line a good six feet ahead of their rival.