A noisily-puffing tug, towing a flotilla of empty barges, was approaching, and, as a hoarse blast came over the silent air and was answered by the whistle of another boat, the stout boy gave unmistakable evidence of a desire to hold up the crowd for the double purpose of rest and observation.
“Don’t stop, fellows,” pleaded Jack.
All laughed at Dave’s comical expression of dismay, and kept on moving.
A wide roadway led down to the river, and this stretch Jack took at a pace which taxed even the long-legged Clifton.
At intervals the New York boy cheerily exclaimed: “Not much further!” or words to that effect, and just when Dave was beginning to have a dreadful presentiment that this meant nearly all the way to the High Bridge he varied the monotony by announcing: “Hooray! I knew we’d beat ’em. There’s the house-boat, now.”
Over the top of an ancient, dilapidated lumber barge just a short distance away the boys caught sight of the roof of a curious-looking craft.
“Rah—rah!” cried Tom, as Jack broke into a run.
“The ‘Gray Gull,’ fellows.”
These words had the desired effect; even Dave began to sprint, and presently the crowd, hot and perspiring, came to a halt upon a small, wooden wharf.
Quite unnecessarily, Jack pointed toward a solid, substantial house-boat which lay at the end. A bit of bunting suspended from a pole hung limp, making the white letters on a blue ground quite undecipherable.