"What luck?" queried Ned excitedly. "How far down were you? Did you find anything?"
"You will know before long," replied Randy with aggravating calmness. "Keep the boat in the same place, Ned. One more stroke. There, that's it Here goes for another."
He quickly mounted the seat again, and drew in his breath.
"Hold on, young fellar," cried Mose Hocker in a loud voice, "Don't risk your life a second time. I kin stand the loss of that terbacker."
Randy laughed, waved his hand, and went under head foremost.
The suspense was now greater than on the previous occasion. Ned began to count, and when the half minute expired his face grew pale.
Thirty-five—forty—three-quarters of a minute! No sign of the reckless diver. Had some undercurrent dragged him far down in those blue depths?
When the forty-ninth second had expired a loud murmur rose from the people on shore, and just a second later it changed to a deafening burst of applause as Randy shot above the surface holding in his right hand—Mose Hacker's gun.
His face was fairly purple for want of breath, and he had scarcely enough strength to gain the side of the boat. He threw the gun over first and then, with Ned's aid, rolled into the bottom, where he lay for a moment, panting for breath.
Cheer after cheer came from shore, and the boys joined in heartily. Randy was all right in a moment, and as Ned paddled across the creek, he hurriedly pulled on his clothes.