In some unaccountable manner the news seemed to have spread through the neighborhood, and when Ned and Randy embarked, the crowd had been augmented by three men and two bare-footed urchins. A wagon containing two farmers had stopped at the entrance of the bridge, and the occupants were tying the horse preparatory to coming down.
Mose Hocker's boat was a large, heavy craft, built on the order of a bateau, and was admirably adapted to Randy's purpose. The boys paddled up stream a little until they were directly below the rock Hocker had designated. Then, while the boat drifted down with a barely perceptible motion, Randy hastily undressed.
"It's a pity we didn't bring a fishing line along," observed Ned. "I could ascertain the depth for you in a minute."
"We don't need it," replied Randy. "I was never in better wind than I am now. If there's a bottom at all I'll find it."
The boat was now one hundred feet below the rock, and a stroke or two of Ned's paddle put it in line with the big buttonwood tree on the right shore.
"This is just about the exact spot," said Randy, surveying with a critical eye the rock and then the tree. "Hold the boat steady, Ned. I'll be ready in a second or two."
This was not a difficult task, for the water was as smooth as a mill pond and almost as motionless.
Clay and Nugget had by this time paddled out in their canoes to witness operations, and the little group on the shore were waiting in breathless silence.
Randy was prepared now, and suddenly he mounted the broad stern seat, and stood on the outer edge.
An audible murmur came from the shore, and Daddy Perkiss mumbled shrilly: "They're right over the middle of the Hole."