"That's Mr. Snow's boat, the Icicle, sir; and here comes Mr. Voorhees's flyer, the Avalanche. There's Mr. Smith's Snow Squall, from Tarrytown. Look out, sir; here comes Mr. Hoff's boat, the Marie, trying to cross our bows. But she can't do it."
In a few minutes the Jack Frost had drawn away slightly from her rivals; and putting about, Mr. Nye ran back, and brought the boat to a stand-still near the dock.
"Oh, uncle, do you think we'll win the race?"
"I can not tell, of course, Joe, but Haines says she handles beautifully, and we stand a good chance if nothing breaks."
"Is Artie there?" called a voice from the dock to Joe.
"Yes, Ed, he's here."
"Tell him that grandma sent him this muffler, and wants him to wrap well up, and not catch—"
"There goes the signal to get ready!" exclaimed Charlie, as he jumped on the windward runner; and they ran rapidly down to the starting-point, where a long line of boats was drawn up like white-winged birds, their sails trembling in the breeze.
"What is the course, sir?" asked Artie.
"From Hook Mountain to Piermont Dock, two miles out in mid-river, then back to the Hook, three times—about thirty miles."