Almost immediately, between a break in the trees, the indistinct form of a boat could be seen gliding rapidly by.
"The 'Rambler,'" gasped Dave; "I'm sure it is the 'Rambler.' That sound could not be anything else. What does it mean?"
The lad forgot, for an instant, his belated friends, everything, in the excitement of the moment. With a haste that almost threatened disastrous consequences, he began to descend. Branches smote him in the face, leaves flapped in his eyes, but he paid no heed. His actions now would have been sufficient refutation of the charge of laziness.
In an astonishingly short time, he reached the ground, seized his gun and started on a run for the water.
"The 'Rambler' is gone," he cried, in his excitement speaking aloud.
A hundred conflicting thoughts flashed through his brain. Was it all a joke?
But he dismissed that idea in an instant. Bob Somers was not that kind of a boy.
Unable to decide what to do, Dave Brandon paced excitedly up and down. The volume of poems, already half out of his pocket, fell unnoticed to the ground.
"It's all my fault," he cried, self-accusingly. "But then, if the fellows had only come back in time. Who would have thought of this?—I know what I'll do!"
Dave Brandon, dismissing any thought of danger, suddenly rushed toward the "Nimrod."