“Wait and see, Bill number three,” said Stiles, dryly.
“Can you swim?” asked Roy Pinger, with a very wide grin.
“Of course,” said Fred, “but I don’t want to;” and he took off his glasses and looked apprehensively at the choppy little waves flowing swiftly by.
“Better get ready for anything,” counseled Harry Cole.
“For the fun will begin in a few minutes,” added Grigsby. “Sound the war-call, Andrews—won’t be the first time they’ve heard it.”
Owen Andrews, a tall, lanky lad, with a shock of sandy hair sweeping across his forehead, thrust his hand into a locker and drew forth a very long tin horn.
“Signal number three,” he remarked, solemnly, “meaning no quarter, eh, cap?”
“That’s it,” grinned Bill Stiles. “Let ’er go!”
Andrews placed the tin horn to his lips; immediately there followed an ear-splitting blast which fairly made Fred Winter jump to his feet. He had never known that a tin horn could be made to produce such a variety of unearthly sounds; and when Andrews, quite red in the face from his exertions, took it from his lips, he gave a sigh of relief.
“Did yourself proud that time,” commented Bill Stiles. “Finish it.”