Again the cheery chug-chug sounded.
The "Rambler" darted forward, and a mighty cheer rolled over the water. Then the boys joined in a merry song.
By the time the motor boat, with full power turned on, was riding the gentle swells of the lake, the "Nimrod" had disappeared from view.
Far off in the distance the smoke of a lake steamer rested like a blur against the sky. The shore presented an ever-changing panorama of wooded hills and flat, marshy expanses, rather desolate in appearance.
The afternoon on the lake passed without any special event. Toward five o'clock the gray expanse of cloud had become considerably broken, a cheerful glow of sunshine flooding the scene.
"We must be getting near the end of the lake, boys," observed Bob; "I begin to see houses."
He smiled as his eyes rested upon Dave Brandon, peacefully curled up on the locker.
About three-quarters of an hour later, the poet laureate was rudely shaken by Sam Randall.
"Wake up!" cried the latter. "Wake up, old sleepy-head—see what's here!"
Dave Brandon raised himself to a sitting posture. Instead of being out on the lake, as he expected, he saw, straight ahead, a bridge connecting two towns, an island dividing a river and many signs of life. Strains of music floated over the air.