COMRADES ON RIVER AND LAKE

BY

RALPH VICTOR

AUTHOR OF “THE BOY SCOUTS SERIES,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY S. SCHNEIDER

New York
THE PLATT & PECK CO.

THE COMRADES SERIES

By RALPH VICTOR

Ralph Victor is probably the best equipped writer of up-to-date boys’ stories of the present day. He has traveled or lived in every land, has shot big game with Sears in India, has voyaged with Jack London, and was a war correspondent in Natal and Japan. The lure of life in the open has always been his, and his experiences have been thrilling and many.

In this series the author gets full opportunity to exhibit his unusual talent for the description of American field sports and the boys who take part in them, with a dash to arouse the enthusiasm of every reader.

Comrades in Camp

Comrades in New York

Comrades on the Ranch

Comrades in New Mexico

Comrades on the Great Divide

Comrades at School

Comrades at Winton Hall

Comrades on Winton Oval

Comrades on River and Lake

Comrades with the Winton Cadets

Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth

Price per Volume, 40 Cents

Copyright, 1910, by The Platt & Peck Co.

YOU WILL HAVE NO NEED FOR YOUR WEAPON.

Contents

CHAPTER I—THE COMRADES LEAVE WINTON

Commencement days were coming, and soon the members of the first class would leave Winton Hall to return no more. They were a fine lot of boys, verging into manhood, and Commandant Cullum was proud of the fact that he had been instrumental in turning them out with a military training and good education to face the battle of life.

Vacation was but a week away when one afternoon Fleet Kenby dashed into the room occupied by his chums, Chot Duncan and Tom Pratt.

“Sh——” he cried.

“Well, what?” interrupted Chot.

“Yes; what?” echoed Tom.

“Well, I wanted to tell you fellows that——”

“Well, why don’t you tell us?”

“Yes, don’t get that old habit of cutting off your sentences just when you’ve aroused our curiosity.”

“Give me a chance to——”

“Surely; take it!”

“Help yourself, old boy. If you see any chances lying around loose, absorb them.”

“Now, see here,” said Fleet, “you’ve tried this game on me several times and I’m getting tired of it.”

“He’s tired of our game,” said Chot, with a glance at Tom.

“He’s tired of our game,” said Tom, returning Chot’s look.

“Comes in here arousing our curiosity, then refuses to tell us what he’s getting at.”

“Then says he’s tired of our game.”

“I don’t see any game.”

“Neither do I.”

“Well, I do,” fumed Fleet. “I won’t tell you now; I’ll get out of here—that’s what I’ll do.”

He made a dash for the door, but Tom blocked the passage.

“No, you don’t,” said he. “You’re going to tell us what you came in to tell us, whether you want to tell us or not. Make up your mind to that.”

Then Tom gave the fleshy lad a punch that sent him into Chot’s arms, and Chot shoved him on to one of the beds in a sitting posture. Then the boys tipped Fleet over, one sat on his chest, the other on his feet, and despite his struggles, he was unable to do anything but writhe and twist.

“Nice way to treat a fellow,” he cried. “Nice—”

“Whoa!” shouted Tom. “Now, tell us what you were going to.”

“I refuse!”

“Then take this,” said Chot, and plunging his fingers into Fleet’s ribs, he tickled him until he fairly squealed.

“Oh, I’ll tell—I’ll tell!” cried Fleet. “You fellows think you’re smart, don’t you, but I’ll get square for this.”

“Oh, he’s going to get square,” said Chot. “He don’t want anything out of that box we received from home to-day.”

“No; express packages from Mortonville don’t interest Fleet,” Tom replied.

“Especially when they contain jam and cookies.”

“Eh? What’s that?” cried Fleet, trying to sit up. He stopped struggling.

“I was just speaking to Tom,” Chot replied. “You and I, Tom, will eat raspberry jam, chocolate cake, currant jelly and brown bread.”

“Oh, yum, yum!” cried Fleet. “Let me up this minute and I’ll forget you ever sat on me.”

“Shall we let him up?” asked Tom.

“May as well. I think he has learned his lesson. The next time he has something to tell us, he’ll tell it, and not make us ask him over and over.”

A moment later Fleet was on his feet.

“Where’s the box?” he demanded, looking around.

“First, what are you going to tell us?”

“Aw—that can wait—I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry. Tell us.”

“Well, the canoes have come,” said Fleet. “I came in to tell you so Pod wouldn’t hear.”

“Pod’s came with ours?”

“Yes; and mine came in from Mortonville. Funny, wasn’t it, they all came on the same day?”

“Yes,” said Chot “I ordered Pod’s name put on his. I thought that would please him.”

They were planning the way to tell Pod of his good fortune, when the little fellow came dashing into the room.

“What do you think?” he cried. “There’s a package of freight down at the depot for me, and I don’t even know what it is.”

“That so?” said the Comrades in the same breath. No one cracked a smile and Pod continued:

“Will you fellows go down with me? There may be freight charges. If so, I shall want to borrow a little till I get my next allowance from Mr. Hounson.”

“That’ll be all right,” said Chot. “We were going down to the depot, anyway. Fleet has ordered his canoe sent over from Mortonville and it should be here to-day.”

The boys left the barracks together and walked toward the depot. Pod was scarcely able to conceal his curiosity. Never before had he received a package of any nature, and he wondered who could have sent him this.

When the boys entered the depot freight room a few moments later and saw the four canoes spread out before them, all were thrilled with delight.

There was Fleet’s canoe from Mortonville, and three brand new ones that had come by freight from New York. And staring up from one of them in the blackest of black letters was the name “Pod Meelick.”

“Say, fellows, am I dreaming?” cried Pod. “That—that surely isn’t for me?”

“Must be—your name is on it,” said Tom.

“But I never ordered anything like that—I—”

Seeing tears in the little lad’s eyes, the Comrades burst into a roar of laughter, and Pod after a moment joined them, but his was a laugh bordering on the hysterical. It was several minutes before they got him calmed down, and told him that the canoe was a present from the Experience Club.

“And you mean—you mean that I am going on your canoe trip?” asked Pod, his eyes fairly bulging from their sockets.

“If you will do us the honor,” said Chot.

“Oh, this is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I was just wondering what I would do during vacation. It would certainly have been lonesome in Bayville after the good times I’ve had.”

They arranged to have the canoes taken to the Winton boat house, where they could be kept until the day after commencement, when the boys were to start on their summer trip up the river.

On their way back to the school the boys met Truem Wright, who came toward them along the sidewalk in front of the gym. Truem looked rather glum, they thought, and to show their good will each of the boys spoke courteously to him.

“I’ve been looking for you fellows,” he surprised them by saying. “I—I——”

“Come along with us, Truem,” said Chot, kindly, as the other hesitated.

“Well, if you don’t mind,” he said, and falling into step with them, walked on toward the barracks. “Vacation’s pretty near,” Truem went on after a moment, looking at the ground as he walked along, “and I hate to leave Winton without telling you boys what you’ve done for me.”

“What we’ve done for you!” gasped Tom, with a queer look at his chums.

“Yes, what you’ve done for me. You’ve made me see myself as I was. I know now that I’ve been a cad—I knew it all along, but didn’t have sense enough to admit it. You fellows have always been on the square with me, while I’ve tried to injure you on every occasion. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done. I’m tired of having the whole school down on me, and feeling that I have no friends among the cadets except certain ones whose friendship is not desirable. I don’t ask you to take me into your set—I realize that would be asking too much—but I want to ask you right out to be my friends.”

When Truem paused there was a moment of silence. This was broken by Pod.

“Do you include me in that, Truem?” he asked.

“Yes, kid, of course I do. I’ve treated you worse than anyone, because I picked on you for years back in Bayville. I’m sorry for that, too. I want to earn the regard and friendship of you all.”

“You’ve earned that already, Truem, by expressing sorrow for what you’ve done,” said Chot. “We’ve never had anything against you—in fact, we’ve always thought that you had the material in you for the making of a mighty nice fellow, and now that you’ve found it out yourself, no one will be readier to offer you friendship than we. Am I right, boys?”

“You bet you are,” said Fleet.

“You’ve treated us rather meanly, Truem,” said Tom, who was the most reluctant to give in. “But a man who can pitch a baseball game as well as you can’t be very bad, so here’s my hand, and I’m your friend as long as you want me to be.”

Each of the boys shook hands with Truem. And as they did so they looked up to see Bert Creighton, Wilkes Davis, Dan Kirlicks and Randy Denton approaching. With the Comrades and Pod, these boys had become known at Winton as the inseparable eight.

“We’ve taken Truem into the fold, fellows,” said Chot, in answer to the looks of surprise on their faces.

“I’m sorry for everything,” said Truem. “I want your friendship. Can I have it?”

“You can have anything I’ve got if Chot Duncan says so,” said Wilkes Davis, extending his hand. The other boys made remarks appropriate to the occasion, then all tried to make Truem feel at home, and when they reached the barracks had succeeded in relieving him of the most of his embarrassment.

The boys soon began to get ready for their canoe trip. One of the first things they did was to arrange with Commandant Cullum to leave their ice yachts in the Winton boat house during the summer. The boat house was a commodious one, and the yachts were pulled up onto a platform in one end, and covered with pieces of tarpaulin.

“I wish I could take the voyage with you,” said Truem Wright, one day, when the Comrades were busy laying in a small stock of provisions and otherwise equipping their canoes for the trip.

“You’re welcome, if you can get a canoe,” said Tom.

“It’s too late for that now,” said Truem. The tone in which he said it told plainly that he wished it wasn’t.

“Well, I’ll tell you what you do. By the middle of July we’ll be in camp somewhere among the Thousand Islands. You’ll be welcome there at any time, Truem. Shall we look for you?”

“Yes,” responded the Bayville boy, a grateful look in his eyes. “I’ll be there all right, and thank you.”

“Come along and be one of us. The more the merrier.”

Truem became the wonder of the other boys. To those who had known him as an enemy, the change was a revelation of what could happen when a boy realized that he was a cad and was anxious to make amends. With Truem making friends, and Roy Damon already on fairly intimate terms, the Comrades had but one enemy left—Dill Newman.

“And he’s going to be against us during our entire course at Winton,” said Tom, to which Chot and Fleet nodded a vigorous assent.

It was arranged before the boys parted from Bert Creighton that they should stay at least a week at his home on Lake George.

“And who knows,” said Bert, “I may go on up the country with you.”

The day after commencement the academy was deserted. All of the cadets were anxious to be off to their homes or on vacation trips, and finally only the Comrades and Pod were left. They had sent their trunks to their homes in Mortonville intending to go after them before the fall term opened.

Toward evening of the day after commencement, when the sun was getting ready to dip behind the hills on the west bank of the river, they pushed out into the stream, these four strong, sturdy fellows, on a journey that was to be full of surprising adventures.

CHAPTER II—THE FIRST NIGHT OUT

Pod had never paddled a canoe, but took to it naturally, his greatest fault being that he paddled too swiftly, and soon found his arms aching from the severe strain. Pod’s canoe, like those of Chot and Tom, was of the Canadian open pattern, about sixteen feet in length and perhaps thirty inches wide. Cushions, filled with cork shavings, served as seats for the young canoeists, with their feet resting on a stretcher to give them a good brace. Then there was a cushioned back-rest against which each boy leaned with a sense of comfort and security. In this easy position, the work of paddling was done, and Pod began to taste the delights of canoeing, though the muscles across his abdomen, which were brought into play with every stroke, soon grew sore, and a realization forced itself upon him that they would be still sorer by morning.

The boys proceeded up the river at a very leisurely pace. There was no hurry, and Pod could not paddle rapidly anyway. The little fellow found great difficulty in keeping his canoe on a straight course with a single blade paddle, but after a little the knack of turning his blade at the end of the stroke, so as to keep in one direction came to him as it comes naturally to all who practice. He found that this turn of the paddle was done by the wrist, and that when once acquired it was a very simple matter to keep the bow headed the right way.

Fleet was the only boy in the party using a double-bladed paddle, but Fleet’s canoe was twenty feet long, rather broad of beam, and capable of holding three persons. It was a much more formidable looking craft than those owned by the other boys. Fleet, however, had paddled the big canoe all his life, and the handling of the double blade was as easy for him as “rolling off a log.”

Chot and Tom, too, were experts, but neither liked the double blade, preferring the lighter one, as well as a lighter craft.

In Fleet’s canoe was stored most of the provisions, some cooking utensils and a small tent, intended to afford shelter during a storm, when the boys were in camp and sleep was necessary. Each boy carried as his individual luggage a suit case containing a dark business suit, a couple of extra shirts, collars, a pair of patent leather shoes, and other articles necessary to make a natty appearance if the occasion arose. Ordinarily they would need only their rowing clothes, which consisted of a soft shirt, a pair of old trousers and light-soled tan shoes. Each boy carried a sweater for use when the nights were cool, or when he became overheated before landing.

The breeze had entirely died away by the time the canoes were a mile up the river, and the boys paddled easily along, keeping abreast of Pod, so that if by chance, his canoe “turned turtle,” they would be on hand to render assistance.

The little fellow evidently suspected their purpose, for he said:

“Don’t worry about me. I can swim, can’t I?”

“Guess you can,” said Chot, “and a ducking won’t hurt you, but we’re going to stay right with you anyway.”

“I’m not going to upset. This is easy.”

“Don’t brag,” said Fleet, as he pushed his paddle deep into the river and sent his big cruiser flying a length ahead, then slowed down till the other boys caught up with him. “Nobody ever went canoeing that didn’t get upset, and you’ll get yours sooner or later. Better in the old Hudson, too, than in the rapids of the St. Lawrence.”

“And that’s no gentle dream,” said Tom, reverting to slang—a thing he seldom did.

“By the way, how long is it going to take us to reach the St Lawrence?” asked Pod.

“Don’t know,” said Chot. “We’ve no way of calculating. In the first place, we don’t know how long we’ll be at the Creighton’s; in the second place, we’re not going to hurry. This is a vacation and we’re going to take things easy—or at least, I am.”

“An easy time and plenty to eat—that’s my motto,” said Fleet, and immediately relapsed into verse:

There was a young fellow from Winton

Whose stomach he never was stintin’;

He’d eat day or night

When dark or when light,

Oh, he was a regular spinton.

“A regular what?” cried Tom, as he stopped paddling for an instant and looked up in surprise.

“A ‘spinton’,” repeated Fleet, with a chuckle.

“What the dickens is that?”

“Don’t you know what a spinton is?” asked Fleet.

“No; never heard of it.”

“I’m surprised at your ignorance.”

“Well, suppose you enlighten us,” said Chot.

“Can’t,” replied Fleet. “Don’t know what it is myself.”

“Then why did you use it?”

“Because it rhymed with Winton,” replied the fleshy lad, with a grin.

“By the way,” said Pod, “speaking of jokes.”

“Now, who said anything about jokes?” Fleet demanded.

“Well, you had your little fling, didn’t you? Give me a chance. Speaking of jokes, what is the best time by the clock to tell a joke?”

“Oh, give it up,” cried the other boys in unison.

“A joke is best appreciated when it strikes one,” said the little fellow. He laughed so loudly that his paddle slipped and he came near capsizing. Then it was the turn of the others to laugh, and they made the water ring with their shouts.

“Wish he’d gone over on that one,” said Fleet. “A little water might dampen his enthusiasm for making bad puns.”

“The question now is, where are we going to spend the night?” said Tom.

The sun had long since disappeared behind the highlands, and evening was nearly upon them.

“Well, it’s moonlight,” said Chot. “I thought we’d keep on at a slow pace until Pod feels tired. Then we can go ashore, make a little camp, and snooze till morning in the open.”

“Ah! that sounds good to me,” said Fleet. “We’ll also eat in the open.”

“You’ll have to open the ‘eat’ before you can eat in the open,” said Pod.

“That’ll do for you, youngster,” said Fleet. “Jokes are barred until to-morrow.”

“I’m down.”

“And you’ll be out too, if you don’t watch how you’re paddling,” said Chot.

Pod was evidently about “all in,” for his strokes were often wobbly, at which times he failed to control his canoe, and came near ramming one of the other boys.

“I’m good for another mile or so,” said Pod. “I know every muscle in my body will ache to-morrow, so I want to keep limber as long as I can.”

Finally the moon came out from behind a cloud and shed its radiance over the water, which appeared beautiful indeed in the soft yellow light. The boys were loath to leave the river, but Pod finally admitted that his arms were stiff and that he could not paddle much farther. As near as they could calculate they had covered eight miles, when Chot gave the order to swing in toward the shore.

A fine shady nook lay before them, where the green grass tempted them. All were hungry, so after pulling the canoes up on to the shore, the boys picked them up and carried them up on the grassy knoll, where, with trees all around them, they made preparations to camp for the night.

What boy has not thrilled with pride when he slept in the open, often with no covering save the blue canopy, studded with stars, and a moon throwing its soft rays in his face? American boys love this life, and lose no opportunity to go camping, hunting and fishing. The Comrades were no exception to the rule—in fact, were never quite satisfied when forced to stay indoors.

As soon as the canoes were pulled high and dry on the knoll, Chot began to give orders, showing what an expert camper he was. Indeed his experience was considerable as the reader may learn from the previous books of this series which commenced with “Comrades in Camp” and “In New York.” Then followed the stories of the South West “Ranch,” “New Mexico” and “Great Divide.” Later “School,” “Winton Hall” and “Oval.”

It had been decided that Chot should be the guiding spirit of this vacation; that all disputes were to be settled by him, and that he was to map out the route, say how long they should stay in a certain place—in fact, take the entire responsibility for creating the best of good times on the trip.

“Tom, you and Fleet throw out that tent, and while Pod and I are putting it up, get out a couple of cans of those cold beans, slice some cold ham, cut some bread, and put the water bottles where we can get hold of them. If any of you fellows feel like coffee we will build a fire and I’ll make it for you.”

“Yum, yum, coffee!” said Fleet. “That certainly listens well.”

“I think so too,” said Tom.

“Well, I believe I could drink a cup or so myself,” Chot admitted.

Chot and Pod unrolled the tent, which was “V” shaped, with no sides, being intended merely for a roof. They stretched it between the trees, spread four blankets on the soft grass, took the cushions out of the canoes, and the sleeping quarters of the party were ready for occupancy.

Then each boy turned his attention to the preparing of the meal. The coffee was soon steaming in a kettle over the fire, kindled by Pod with some dry leaves and branches. Tom cut slices of rye bread, and spread tempting pieces of boiled ham between them. Fleet opened two cans of beans, and a jar of raspberry jam, and all was ready.

To say that the boys enjoyed their first meal would be but half expressing it. Fleet ate everything that was put before him and cried for more.

“These beans are the finest I’ve ever had,” said he, though his mouth was so full that his words were hardly intelligible to his chums.

“Don’t forget your table manners,” said Tom. “Remember your mother taught you not to talk with your mouth full.”

“He’s not talking,” said Pod. “He’s only trying.”

“Blub—blub—blub—I’ll—I’ll—gug—gug—gug—get—you—fuh—fuh—blub—blub——” spluttered Fleet.

“Swallow it!” cried Chot, “and don’t do it again. We’re running a respectable boarding house—not a pig pen.”

Fleet swallowed as Chot told him, coughed violently, then seized one of the water bottles and drank long and hard.

“Leave the bottle, and we’ll fill it again,” said Tom.

With tears in his eyes Fleet waved his hand for them to desist. Pod jumped up and patted him on the back with no gentle force, which straightened the fleshy one out in a hurry.

“What do you think you’re doing, anyway?” he demanded, glaring at his little comrade. “I’m no punching bag!”

“That so? Thought you were.”

“Fleet has eaten enough to last him three days,” said Chot. “Remember, fellows, he gets nothing but water during that time. There must be something left for the rest of us.”

“Humph! I’d like to see you fellows keep me from eating!” snorted Fleet.

“Oh, you’d like to? Well, then, watch us.”

It was ten o’clock when the boys had finished telling stories and discussing their trip. By that time all were sleepy, and Pod was beginning to feel lame all over.

“Gee! I hate to lie down, fellows,” he said. “I know I won’t be able to move in the morning.”

Then the boys rolled up in their blankets, and fifteen minutes later were so deep in Slumberland that not even Fleet’s snoring created an impression.

CHAPTER III—THE RACE

“Oh! Oh! Oh!”

A startled cry rang through the little camp shortly after daybreak the next morning.

Chot Duncan sprang up as if he had been shot, and Tom was not far behind him.

“What was that?” he cried.

They glanced around among the trees. A few birds were twittering in the branches, but otherwise the camp was apparently undisturbed.

“Sounds like someone in distress,” said Tom.

“Eh? What’s the matter, fellows?” cried Fleet, as he struggled up, rubbing his eyes.

“Heard a noise of some kind,” said Chot. “Woke me up.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” The cry came again in mournful tones, and from the blankets right at their feet. Looking down, the boys saw Pod, his face distorted apparently in great pain.

“What’s the matter—are you sick?” Chot asked, kneeling beside his little comrade.

“Sick nothing!” growled Pod. “There isn’t a muscle in my body that I can move. I don’t know what I’m going to do, fellows. You’ll have to go off and leave me.”

“Well, won’t that be too bad?” said Fleet. “Of course, we’ll go and leave you. Won’t give you anything to eat, either. We are cold, heartless creatures, Podsy, and we don’t care what happens to you.”

“Shut up with your sermons, Fleet Kenby. If you had my back and stomach, and arms and legs, and feet and——”

“And a few other things, why, then I’d be Pod Meelick, wouldn’t I?” and Fleet grinned broadly.

“Stop laughing at me! This is no laughing matter! Lend a hand, Chot, and see if I can sit up.”

Chot pulled the little fellow carefully into a sitting position, Pod letting off a groan or a shriek at every move.

“Oh, dear, I’ve counted so much on the delights of canoeing, fellows. I—I never thought I’d have to go through this—honest I didn’t.”

“Oh, be a man!” advised Fleet.

“Be one yourself!” was Pod’s retort.

“We’ll limber you up, youngster,” said Chot.

“No, no! Keep away! What are you going to do with me?”

“Give you what you need—a bath and a rub down.”

In a jiffy they had stripped Pod’s clothes off and put on his swimming trunks, and with Pod between them, groaning at every step, Chot and Tom rushed down to the water’s edge and plunged into the stream, followed more leisurely by Fleet.

Pod went under the water and came up puffing.

“Swimming will limber you up,” said Tom, “and a good rub down will finish the business off.”

Pod sent up a protest, but the water was deep where his chums had carried him, and he was forced to exert himself to keep afloat. Gradually some of the lameness left him, as stiff muscles began to limber under the exercise, and after a ten minutes swim, while still lame he was able to scramble up on to the knoll with some degree of comfort. The boys had each brought a rough bath towel, and these were now brought into play and their skins rubbed until they shone with a ruddy glow. Perfect pictures of modern young athletes were these lads, as they stood there on the river bank, their fine muscular development showing to its full advantage, their breaths coming in the long, even way that denotes strong lungs.

“I surely feel better,” said Pod. “Gee, when I woke up, though! I hate to think about it.”

“Don’t,” said Fleet, laconically.

“I don’t need your advice,” said Pod. “What I need is a cup of coffee.”

“We all need that,” said Chot.

“And some bread and jam,” said Fleet, smacking his lips.

“Who ever heard of bread and jam for breakfast?” asked Tom.

“I have,” asserted Fleet.

“That’s on the lunch or dinner bill of fare,” said Pod.

“No; it’s on the Fleet Kenby bill of fare,” said that worthy, “and that means any time of the day or night the spirit moves me.”

“Fleet’s right,” said Chot. “When it comes to eating, he moves both day and night. Why, I’ve known him to wake up in the night with a craving for pickles.”

“Wish I had a pickle now,” said Fleet.

“Oh, you do?” said Chot. “Well, there happens to be a bottle in your canoe. We’ll open it.”

“Why—er—never mind,” said Fleet. “I—I think I’d rather save the pickles for later in the day.”

“Bluffer!” cried Pod.

“You’re the bluffer!” replied Fleet, and gave chase to the little fellow. He caught him about fifty yards from the knoll, then the two ran a foot race back to camp, Pod winning by a narrow margin.

“You can’t run, you big porpoise,” he taunted.

“Maybe not,” was Fleet’s reply, “but I can eat better now. I needed a little violent exercise.”

The boys soon sat down to bread, cold beans and coffee—not a very substantial meal, but one eminently satisfactory when campers-out wake up hungry.

Fifteen minutes after the meal was over everything was packed into the canoes and the boys again shoved off into the river and headed up stream.

Pod continued to emit a few groans at intervals, but after a while paddling became easier, and the groans finally ceased. The boys set an easy pace for the little fellow, and the canoes turned bend after bend of the mighty river. Catskill was soon passed, then Hudson on the opposite side, and soon Athens came into view. The boys soon rounded a big bend above Athens, and with the sun behind a cloud and all feeling in fine fettle, Fleet proposed a race.

“I’d hate to race you,” said Pod.

“Why?”

“Because you take the sting of defeat too hard.”

“Now, you’re joking again. What do you other fellows say? Shall we race?”

“I’m willing,” said Chot.

“And I,” said Tom.

“Well, I hope you fellows will wait for me when you’ve finished—that’s all I’ve got to say,” said Pod.

“See that cat-boat moored to the wharf on the east shore?” asked Chot.

The boys nodded.

“We’ll race till we’re even with that, and the winner has to set them up at the first place we strike ice cream soda.”

“The loser, you mean,” said Fleet. “I don’t want to win this race and set them up in the bargain.”

“Well, the loser, then,” said Chot, winking at Tom.

Pod, of course, was not in the race. He was too inexperienced as yet to push his canoe at such a rapid pace, even though he could have stood the strain.

Chot and Tom removed the cushions from their canoes, and fitted in a cross-piece, on which they sat with their feet braced well in under. Fleet, however, could not manage his double-bladed paddle in this fashion, and continued to sit on his cushion, his feet braced out in front of him.

Pod watched the boys line up, and when all were even gave the word to go. Three paddles dipped simultaneously into the water and the canoes shot away up the river at a rapid pace. Pod paddled leisurely along in their wake, they having agreed to wait until he came up with them.

Tom took the lead at the start, with Fleet second and Chot last. The cat-boat to which they were racing was perhaps a mile up stream.

Fleet was puffing from his exertion at the end of a half-mile, but had the satisfaction of knowing that he led his chums by a full length. The big double paddle fell on either side with rhythmic precision. But Fleet was doomed to disappointment, for when within a quarter of a mile of the finish, both Chot and Tom paddled rapidly past him, smiled into his face, and crossed the finish line neck and neck.

“That was a put up job,” said Fleet. “But as long as the winner sets them up, I don’t care.”

“But the winner doesn’t set them up,” said Chot. “You remember we changed that to the loser at your suggestion.”

“That’s so; we did,” Fleet reluctantly admitted, after a moment’s thought. “In other words, little Fleetsy gets the warm end of the proposition all around.”

“That’s about the size of it,” said Tom.

“Methinks I see a village ahead. Thinkest thou, Tomsy, couldst get ice cream sodas there?” asked Chot.

“Ay, ay, me lord,” responded Tom, in a mock serious voice.

They paddled just enough to keep the canoes from drifting with the current down stream, and soon Pod caught up with them.

“Hope I get in on the ice cream soda,” he said.

“Of course,” said Chot. “Fleet has very kindly agreed to furnish all we can drink.”

“I have not,” said Fleet. “Once around, if you please. After that, someone else foots the bill.”

Half an hour later they landed at a small village on the west bank, and were lucky enough to strike a combination soda fountain, drug store and post-office right on the river front. They chipped in a nickel apiece to get a boy to watch their canoes, then proceeded to drink ice cream soda to their hearts’ content. It was nearly noon, so the boys concluded to buy some sandwiches for lunch, which would be eaten in the canoes farther up the river. Then they could provide a heavier meal at night. Fleet was reluctant to agree, believing that a juicy steak, some French fried potatoes and an omelet would set better on his stomach than a sandwich, but his chums argued him out of this.

“You can’t paddle well on a full stomach,” said Chot.

“If he can’t paddle well on a full stomach, let him turn over on his back,” said Pod, then dodged when Fleet made a pass at him.

They found a crowd of boys collected about the canoes, but the boy they had hired as guard was defiantly standing them off, and nothing had been touched. The boys chipped in and gave the little fellow an extra coin, and the urchin immediately decided that the canoeists were “bricks.”

The boys pushed off into the stream again. The sun was rather warm now, and paddling was not any great delight, so they contented themselves with a slow, easy movement. This was kept up for the better part of two hours, when an incident occurred that relieved the monotony of the cruise.

The boys were hugging the west shore, hoping the sun would soon hurry behind the highlands, when upon turning a bend in the river, a catboat was seen in midstream, headed south. She was perhaps a quarter of a mile away from them, and they could easily make out the form of a young lad at the tiller. It was some time before he caught sight of the canoes, but when he did, he started up in amazement. They saw him lash the tiller and tip-toe to the door of the little cabin down which he looked in a furtive manner. Then he advanced to the side of the boat and beckoned to the boys in the canoes.

“Wonder what that means?” said Fleet.

“He wants us to approach,” said Chot. “Guess we’d better see what he wants.”

So they headed their canoes out into the stream, and at the same instant the boy seized the tiller of the boat and brought her around to the wind so that she lay, her sails flapping idly, waiting for them to come up.

CHAPTER IV—THE FIGHT ON THE CATBOAT

“Looks like he’s afraid of something,” said Pod.

“Sure; this is the haunted sloop you’ve read about,” Fleet responded.

“If you can make a sloop out of a catboat, you’re a dandy, Fleet Kenby,” said Pod. “Don’t you know that a sloop has a bowsprit and a jib?”

Fleet was silent. He saw that his anxiety to bring in the “haunts,” had led him into making a nautical error, so he subsided.

As the canoes approached the catboat, the lad at the tiller held his hand to his lips for silence, then pointed significantly toward the cabin.

“It may be a catboat, but it’s haunted all right,” said Fleet. “Don’t you think we’d better clear out of this?”

“I don’t see as this is half as scary as that hut I was shut up in on the east side of the river the night Kenton Karnes and his gang played kidnappers,” said Pod.

“Well, let’s see what this boy wants,” said Chot. “He is evidently in great fear from someone in that cabin.”

“Someone?” said Fleet. “You mean something!”

“I mean what I said.”

“Push up alongside, fellows,” said Tom, “and keep quiet unless the boy talks. He’s trying to impress us to be silent.”

The lad was still holding the nose of the boat to the wind, and the sail still flapped in the breeze.

The boys paddled up alongside, worked their way around to the stern, where again the lad held a finger to his lips. On the stern of the catboat were the words: “Nellie B. of Troy.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Chot in a low tone.

“Sh! Easy there,” was the lad’s reply. “Captain’s drunk. Can you fellows take me off this blooming boat?”

“Why do you want to leave?”

“Because I don’t belong here. He kidnapped me—shanghaied me, I guess you’d call it.”

“He did?”

“Yes; my name is Ted Lanham. I live at Greenbush. He got me while I was in swimming. He’s awful, fellows,” and to prove the truth of his assertion, he pulled up his sleeve, showing several large black and blue spots on each of his arms.

“Why, that’s a dirty shame!” cried Fleet “And you say this captain is in that cabin?”

“Sh! Yes; he’s in there, but he’s about half shot.”

“Well, we’ll get him for this!” said Fleet, whose sympathies had gone out to the unfortunate lad.

“You can’t do it; he’s six-foot tall and weighs over two hundred.”

“Don’t care if he weighs a million. There’s enough of us to take care of him.”

“I have a better plan,” said Chot. “You say you live at Greenbush?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’re headed in that direction. Your canoe will hold two, Fleet. Suppose we just take Ted off and leave the catboat to drift where she pleases.”

Fleet did not like this idea. Of course, he wanted to take Ted in his canoe and carry him home; he had intended doing just that. But first, seeing the lad had been mistreated, he wanted to mete out some sort of punishment to the captain.

The plans of the boys were taken out of their hands in a most sudden manner. There was a bellow as if from a mad bull, and the next moment their startled gaze was focused upon the burly figure of a man in the cabin doorway. As the boy had said, he was a big man, and just now his eyes were inflamed, his hair tousled and his face as red as a beet, which made him look more ferocious than ever.

“What does this mean?” he roared. “Who stopped my boat?”

“I did,” said Ted Lanham, a defiant note in his voice. Now that he had the Comrades and Pod to back him up, his courage began to return.

“Oh, ye did, did ye?” cried the captain. “You stopped my boat, did ye? Well, I’ll learn ye how to interfere with my plans—I’ll learn ye!”

“He’s never been to school,” piped Pod. “He said, I’ll learn ye’,” at which there was a laugh from the other boys.

Ted Lanham left the tiller and ran around the cabin, as the big captain staggered toward him.

“Did you kidnap that boy?” asked Chot.

“Well, what if I did?” was the leering reply. “Who are you, that you interfere in my business?”

“The boy’s business is our business, and we’ll make your business our business until we get that boy out of your clutches.”