"Spurt?" sniffed Hackett. "Much good that would have done. You would have been beaten so badly on the last stretch that—"
"Huh! I would, hey? You never saw the day when you could beat me, Crackett!"
"You'll have to grow about a foot, 'Mud-bank,' before you're in my class," retorted Hackett, angrily.
"No use scrapping about it, boys," said Bob Somers. "Plenty of time to settle the championship of Lake Wolverine."
"There ain't no one in Stony Creek can beat me," asserted Musgrove, positively; "ask Tim Sladder."
"Well, there's one here who can."
"'Tain't so! An' Scummers was right up with us, too."
"Oh, ho, fellows," drawled Dave Brandon; "what's the matter with you? The lake is still here, and to-morrow's coming. You can try it again, and maybe I'll go in for the championship myself."
This idea made the expansive grin reappear on Musgrove's face, and, with a survey of the poet laureate's generous proportions, he broke into his usual laugh.
"Let's get over to camp, fellows, and see if any one has been up to more funny tricks," suggested Tom Clifton.