"You wouldn't have it without a good scrap, I can tell you that," laughed Sam. "Ah, our turn next. Look lively, Bob."
The gates of the lock slowly opened. A barge entered first, then the small steamer mentioned, and a number of other boats, not, however, without some confusion and a great deal of unnecessary shouting.
When the gates closed upon them, the Ramblers lay back to enjoy the sensation as the boat slowly sank to the lower level. In due course, they passed slowly out between stone walls which towered a dozen or more feet above them.
"Might as well get out the oil-stove, and get things going," spoke up Bob; "and light a couple of lanterns, somebody. We don't want to do any Nat Wingating on this trip."
"No, because the other boat might be the stronger," chuckled Dick.
"Let the motor out a bit, Dave, and we'll run by some of these old hulks."
Dusk was now upon them. Lights, in long, tremulous lines, reflected in the dark waters of the canal. From the cabins of several indistinct craft a cheerful glow appeared, and, as the "Rambler" passed them, they heard the rattle of knives and forks.
"I declare, I'm glad to see the river again," said Bob, as they came out into the stream. "How is supper progressing, cooks? Hungry—well, I should say so."
"It's a good thing we brought plenty of stuff along," commented the poet laureate. "Tom Clifton, keep away from that pot. Put the salt out of sight, boys."
"You needn't be afraid, Chubby. I wanted to see what kind of a mess they're getting up. I say, this is a dismal-looking place, isn't it?"