"There it is!" cried Sam Randall, eagerly, and he waved his arm astern, in the direction of Fir Island, whose richly verdured expanse loomed forth clear and distinct against its surroundings.
"You're right," chimed in Bob. "Dave, I say, Dave Brandon, look at that."
But an unmistakable snore came from the direction of the locker. The easy, gliding motion had lulled the poet laureate to sleep. An energetic shake thoroughly aroused the devotee at the shrine of Art and Poetry. He sat up and stared long and earnestly at the far-off speck—then stared with equal intensity at his companions.
"What did you stop the boat for when there was a chance to run into something?" he inquired, with a laugh. "I hope the trip is going to be lively enough to keep me awake."
The captain made no response. He was gazing earnestly at the mysterious motor boat through a powerful field-glass.
"What is it, Bob? What do you see?" asked his companions, eagerly.
"Fellows, this is most astonishing. I believe Nat Wingate and his crowd are in that boat."
"Nat Wingate? Impossible!" cried the others, incredulously, and even Dave Brandon uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"I can scarcely believe it. How in the world could Nat get a motor boat?" queried Sam.
For an answer, Bob handed him the glass. Sam looked long and earnestly, while the others crowded around.