"Yer will, hey?" retorted "Little Bill." "Yer ain't big 'nuff by two feet ter chase me. Yer 'most as bad as that elephant roamin' the mountains. Chase me, hey?"
A bucket half full of water was standing near by; "Little Bill's" wrath was too great to be appeased by mere words. Before Sam Randall could push off, a sheet of water curved gracefully through the air and descended squarely on Sanders' head and shoulders.
"Know'd I git a chancet some day," cried "Little Bill."
Then he and a cloud of dust kept pace together up the yellow road.
When Sanders had recovered sufficiently to speak, he turned a forlorn-looking face toward the two Ramblers, and observed, with considerable vehemence, "It's a good thing yer ain't a-laughin' at me."
Sam Randall's face had turned purple from suppressed mirth; it was only by a great effort that he stifled his desire to roar, and thus a tremendous row was probably averted.
Meanwhile, they had made a start. For once, they skirted the far shore of Hemlock Island, finally anchoring just below the passageway.
The climb to Neil Prescott's cabin brought them a disappointment—the place was deserted.
"Gee! This is mean luck!" grumbled Tommy.
"But the old duffer is on the island, for we saw his boat," put in Sam. "Let's look around a bit."