"Twenty miles?" gasped Dave, in horrified tones. "My gracious, Bob Somers, don't you say anything like that! Why can't we take a train somewhere?"
The captain brought out his map, spreading it carefully on the ground.
"It's eight miles, at least, to the railroad," he said; "a good three hours' tramp. But, boys, I can't get over this. To think our trip on the water is ended, and that the 'Rambler' lies at the bottom of the river."
"I pretty near felt like crying when I saw it first," admitted Tom Clifton; "and it isn't near so bad on us as it is on you, Bob. Crickets, I am sorry, and no mistake."
"Sorry is no name for it," cried Sam Randall, hotly. "If that mysterious fellow was a giant, I believe I'd tackle him single-handed. All our fun gone, vacation busted—whoop—I don't believe I ever felt so mad in my life. Makes us look like a lot of kids, too. It's a good thing Nat Wingate isn't around here looking for trouble."
The boys had been slowly walking back to the camping-ground.
"Jolly good thing you chucked that hatchet ashore, Tom Clifton," observed Bob. "Let's get something to eat in a jiffy, and leave this place."
The boys looked like anything but the usually merry party of Ramblers, as they sat around dejectedly. None had any appetite, and it was a relief when the meal was over.
"We'll divide the stuff up," proposed Bob; "it won't be much of a load, and it may come in handy."
"Twenty miles!" groaned Dave; "almost as long as the Marathon course. Don't believe my legs will ever stand it."