“But those fellows can’t be allowed to stay on the ‘Gray Gull’ all afternoon,” protested Joe. “I’m beginning to boil over. I’ll bet they get away with most of our grub, too. And who knows but what they may have assassinated poor Confuse-us.”
“What? You don’t think that—that—they——” began Fred, aghast.
“Not on purpose, perhaps. But if they stepped on him, in some dark corner—well, Confuse-us hasn’t a constitution which could stand that.”
“Well, it certainly makes us look like a lot of softies,” declared Joe, walking slowly toward the water’s edge. “Look at the grinning chump waving his hand. Hello—this is good stuff.”
Joe stooped over, and gathered up a handful of mud, and, almost before his companions could divine his intentions, the boy’s arm swung around and a nice, compact mud-ball was spinning swiftly through the air.
The distance was not very great, and the throw unfortunately successful.
The “Count,” with his back turned, was just on the point of arising, when the missile thudded against him. Being partly off his balance and taken entirely by surprise, he gave a yell, and finding himself going forward, miscalculated the amount of energy necessary to regain his former position.
The result was startling. He could not save himself, and, with surprising suddenness, lurched over the side of the boat.
A great splash went up, and the astounded “Duke” received a generous shower bath.
“Great Cæsar!” gasped Jack.