"No, I'm going to sleep in the cabin," replied Tim Reardon, "and see the start in the morning."
"Guess I will, too," said Allan Harding. So the two remained, while the troop of canoeists set off soon after, on the run back to Benton.
The following morning, the first of a double holiday, came in bright and clear. Little Tim and his companion were early astir, and cooking a mess of oatmeal from the cabin's scanty stores over a cracked sheet iron stove.
"There they come," cried Tim presently, as the sounds of fresh, boyish voices came from outside. "Hooray! I wish 'twas a yacht race, though. Wouldn't I go along?"
By nine o'clock the four canoes were fully equipped, drawn up in line off the cabin, and the canoeists, paddles in hand, arms bared, and sweaters tied around the thwarts, were ready to start. Jim and John Ellison were there, a sturdy pair of farm lads; Jack Harvey, apparently much over-matching his mate in physique, but with something in the slighter figure of Henry Burns that indicated resource and staying powers; Tom and Bob, old and hardened canoeists; and George and Arthur Warren, clean-cut and athletic.
"Ready for the horn!" called Harvey, holding his paddle in his right hand and a long, tin horn in the other.
"All ready!" sang out the canoeists.
Harvey put the horn to his lips and blew a loud, full blast. The paddles struck the water with a vigour, and the race was begun.
The three canoes shot ahead of Harvey's at the start, owing to the slight delay caused him in dropping the horn.
"Let them lead, Jack," said Henry Burns, quietly. "It's a two days' race. Take it easy."