The famous Highlands of the Hudson, consisting of numerous ranges of hills, many over a thousand feet high and a few of considerably greater altitude, were now assuming definite shape; Haverstraw Bay, a continuation of the Tappan Sea, was coming to an end.
George almost forgot his troubles. Sitting at his ease on the “promenade” deck, or taking his turn at the tiller, he told the others that he had never enjoyed himself more.
Haverstraw, with its kilns and factories, its smoke, and the odd-shaped, precipitous mountain which looks down upon it, was soon passed.
The Highlands were now close at hand. Above their lofty summits floated a succession of hazy clouds, which sent fleeting shadows to dim the fresh green of the tree-covered slopes. And how steep and rugged they were; with here and there bold, rocky forms flashing into view between the vegetation.
While the “Gray Gull” slowly chugged its way toward the narrow stretch of river a sense of smallness came over the boys.
“Looks as if the river ended,” cried Jack, suddenly.
“Certainly does, skipper,” said Dave. “We seem to be headed straight for the rocks.”
“Follow the water, and you’ll be all right,” laughed Joe.
“We’re coming to what is known as the ‘Horse Race,’” explained Norman, “and, as the tide is in our favor, we ought to make good progress. Isn’t it magnificent, boys?”
“It’s all right, twice!” cried Jack, enthusiastically. “Simply great.”