"What can I do for you, young men?" he asked.
Bob Somers related his story.
"Humph!" muttered the official. He glanced over the rim of his eye-glasses at the boys, then began to question them.
The Ramblers had no intention of mentioning Nat Wingate and his crowd, but, under the fire of persistent queries, even the fact that the Nimrods' leader had threatened them came out. Bob, however, assured the official that no suspicion could be attached to their rivals.
"I don't know that we can give you much hope," said the official, at the conclusion of their interview; "but we will do the best we can."
"Now for the post-office!" exclaimed Bob. "I'll break the news to my dad as gently as I can. I wouldn't like to see his face when he gets the letter."
"There's the post-office across the street," said Sam.
In the meantime, the two Trailers had rejoined their companions. The "Nimrod," decked with several flags, the largest of which bore the club's name in gilt letters, was tied up at a wharf near the far end of the town.
"Hi, there!" cried Nat, as they approached, and unmindful of the fact that several spectators were engaged in talking to his friends. "Great news—bing, bang, bust, air full of little pieces—old canal-boat of Somers under fifty feet of the worst drinking water in Wisconsin."
"What's that?" asked Hackett.