"I thought you were going it a bit too heavy," remarked Frank, with a smile.
"Oh, you get out!" laughed Andy. "I'll beat you yet. But I like your company, that's why I let you catch up to me."
"Oh, yes!" answered Frank, half sarcastically. "But why don't you stop talking? You can't talk and row, I've told you that lots of times. That's the reason you lost that race with Bob Trent last week—you got all out of breath making fun of him."
"I was only trying to get him rattled," protested Andy.
"Well, he got the race just by sticking to it. But go on. I don't care. I'm going to win, but I don't want to take an unfair advantage of you."
"Oh, lobsters! I'm not asking for a handicap. You never can beat me in a thousand years." And, with a jolly laugh Andy began to sing:
"The stormy winds do blow—do blow,
And I a winning race will row—yo ho!
You'll come in last,
Your time is past,
Out on the briny deep, deep, deep!
Out on the briny deep!"
"All right, have your way about it," assented Frank good naturedly. "I can stand it if you can," and with that he increased his strokes by several a minute, until his skiff had shot ahead of his brother's, and was dancing over the waves that, now and then, brilliantly reflected the sun as it came from behind the fast-gathering clouds.
"Oh, so you are really going to race?" called Andy, somewhat surprised by the sudden advantage secured by his brother. "Well, two can play at that game," and he, also, hit up the pace until in front of both boats there was a little smother of foam, while the green, salty water swirled and sparkled around the blades of the broad ashen oars, for the boys did not use the spoon style.
For perhaps two minutes both rowed on in silence, and it was so quiet, not a breath of wind stirring, that each one could hear the labored breathing of the other. The pace was beginning to tell, for, though Frank was not over-anxious to make record time to the dock, he was not going to let his brother beat him, if he could prevent it.