Tom owned a cruiser, and to him, of course, she was the most perfect craft in the world. "She can go anywhere that a yacht can, except, of course, across the ocean, or on voyages like that," he explained, "and into lots of places that a yacht can't, besides, such as up small streams and down rapids. You can either sail or paddle in her, and if a storm comes, all you have to do is to run your ship ashore, step out, haul her beyond reach of the tide, and there you are, just as comfortable and well fixed as if you owned the biggest hotel in New York city."
Attractive as they found the cruisers, some of the Rangers thought the racers even more so. They too were decked over, but their cockpits were only little wells—just big enough for one's feet. All else was water-tight compartment, so that, even if the canoe were rolled over and over in the water, she could not fill or sink, but would float on the surface like a bubble. The sails of a racer were twice as large as those of a cruiser, and to keep her right side up under her great spread of silk or linen the crew would "hike" himself out on the end of a long sliding deck-seat, and there, poised in mid-air, would skim above the crests of the waves with the speed and safety of a sea-bird. The racer's sails cannot be lowered, and are never reefed; but if the squall blows so heavy that the outboard weight of the crew can no longer hold the canoe up to it, he allows her to gracefully capsize, and the outspread sails lie flat on the water, while he clings to the air-tight hull, or stands on the brass centre-plate until the blow moderates. Then, using his sliding-seat as a lever, he pulls his craft once more into an upright position, scrambles aboard, and speeds away as though nothing had happened. This sort of work is like circus-riding, and only through much practice may one attain perfection at it; but as the Sea Rangers watched the movements of the swift-darting racers, it seemed to them not only the most fascinating sport in the world, but also the perfection of sailing.
They were even ready to admit that all their previous knowledge of seamanship and sailing was but ignorance when compared with that they were now acquiring.
As Cracker Bob Jones said: "What chumps we were to think we knew how to handle a boat before we came here. Now, though, we have got the whole thing down so fine that if ever we get a chance to sail all by ourselves, I rather guess somebody'll be surprised."
In spite of this self-confidence, all that Cracker Bob or any others of the Rangers really knew of canoe-sailing was what they learned by looking on; for while the canoe-men were perfectly willing to take them out paddling, not one of them cared to trust his fragile craft to inexperienced hands when under sail.
If the Sea Rangers were pleased with the New York boys and their belongings, the latter were no less so with the lads from Berks, and when, on the last evening of the meet, the latter enlivened the camp-fire gathering with several scenes from Blue Billows they fairly "brought down the house."
In one way it is sad that all such good times must come to an end, though if they did not they would soon cease to be good times, and we should long for anything in the way of a change. The Rangers had not wearied of this good time, though, by Saturday morning, and when the steamer appeared that was to take the canoe-boys back to the big city they openly rejoiced that their own hour for departure had not yet arrived. In vain did Tom Burgess and his comrades urge them to take advantage of this opportunity for leaving the island, and so return to Berks by way of New York. They declared that they were bound to await Captain Crotty's return in the very place where he had left them, and found a dozen other reasons for declining the invitation. So the canoe-men reluctantly boarded their steamer, and with much cheering and blowing of the steam-whistle, and dipping of flags, and waving of hats, sailed away, leaving the island to the undisturbed possession of our young Sea Rangers.
No sooner, however, was the steamer lost to view and the boys from Berks realized that their sole means of communication with the world was thus cut off, than they began to experience a complete change of feeling. Will Rogers was struggling bravely against it as he shouted:
"Hurrah, fellows! Now we are really and truly cast away on a desolate island, and thrown on our own resources. Isn't it fun, though! and aren't we in great luck?"
"Yes, I suppose so," admitted one or two of the others, hesitatingly; but Cal Moody spoke right out, and said he thought it was awful, and he wished Captain Crotty would come, or that they were safe at home in Berks, or anywhere except on that horrid island. The little chap was about ready to cry: but was prevented by Will Rogers, who, realizing the effect of such despondency on the others, sang out: