“Up with the anchor,” commanded Stiles, tersely. “Fall all over yourself, Jim Dale,” he added, as the latter, in an effort to be of some assistance, tripped ingloriously.
“This is great sport, eh, my four Bills?”
Stiles gave the fly-wheel several quick revolutions; the engine responded almost instantly, and the “Dart” glided ahead. Soon, under full power, it was hastening after the “Reindeer.”
The moon shone from a cloudless sky, and a thousand sparkling ripples shot from the dark gray water. The distant shores were lost in haze, while the line of woods close at hand stood out in patches of impenetrable shadows and silvery lights.
With her throbbing engine sending forth a steady stream of pulsations, the “Dart” cut swiftly through the water. It was exhilarating sport, and, as Bob Somers leaned back, he thoroughly enjoyed the easy, gliding motion.
Far ahead, but a mere, uncertain patch of dark with two tiny specks of light, was the “Gray Gull.”
“I can’t understand it,” murmured Fred, in perplexity. “Wonder why those chaps put off; and what in the dickens George’s guardian is chasing them for?”
“We’ll soon know,” laughed Bob.
The faces of the Ripley boys shone with excitement, for this was a splendid opportunity to have some fun with their rivals.
“Those foolish Thornton chaps have been getting altogether too fresh lately,” commented Bill Stiles. “To-night, the Ripley seniors will teach ’em another lesson.”