A zigzag road led down by easy stages to the water. By the time they reached it, with Pete and Jimmy straggling along in the rear, the boat was bobbing up and down near the sawmills.
A number of the men came out to bid the boys good-bye, so, for several minutes, the seven were kept busy shaking hands and responding to their hearty good wishes.
A pleasant smell of water was in the air. The breeze had freshened, coming in strong puffs which sent wicked little waves hissing and breaking over the beach. Great logs near shore moved sluggishly, sometimes entirely submerged by the rollers.
Everything but the weapons was hurled carelessly into the bottom of the boat. Dave, Jack, Tom Clifton and Tim stumbled aboard the rocking craft, the tall boy, of course, tripping over almost every parcel.
"Ho for the 'Osprey'!" yelled Tim. "Bye, bye, Uncle Stanley and Cap'n Slater an' everybody!"
There was much waving of hands and handkerchiefs; a loud chorus of shouts—then the rowlocks rattled, while the measured dip of the blades sent the heavily laden craft slowly ahead.
"I say, old feller—Slater!"
The gruff captain frowned at Colliver's upturned face, but something in the lad's expression chased it immediately away, and, as he felt a strong tug at his sleeve, he obeyed the significant wink that Pete gave him, and stepped aside.
"Wal?" he asked, curtly.
Pete's eyes ran swiftly over the group. They were far too intent upon watching the departing boat to pay any attention to him.