"Neither; I dreamed that the 'Rambler' had turned into a rowboat," responded Dave, his eyes blinking drowsily. "I must say, I was always dead against using a pair of oars. It's no sport for a white man."
"Or a lazy one," said Sam, and even Dave laughed in spite of aching arms.
The spot was very charming. Off to the east lay a low line of hills, covered with verdure, while rolling fields and picturesque clumps of trees added to the charm of the landscape.
As much time had been lost, however, they concluded not to linger. The rudder worked as well as usual, and the "Rambler" was pushed to its fullest capacity.
"This is the kind of sport I like," said Dave, allowing his hand to drag in the cool water. "My, but I'm glad the oars are out of sight."
"When are we going to do any fishing?" asked Tom Clifton, suddenly.
"Plenty of time for that when we get to Lake Minnewago," responded Bob; "I've heard that the fishing there is fine."
Occasionally boats were passed, and the swiftly flying "Rambler" attracted considerable attention.
"There's another of them crazy toy boats ahead," shouted the occupant of a clumsy sloop, so far away that his words scarcely reached their ears. "She nearly run me down, and I was going to—"
But what the gentleman's intentions were could not be learned, for they immediately passed out of hearing, but judging from his manner they concluded that he was much wrought up over something.