Maybe you'll get the rest of
Rip's shirt to-day."
"And maybe he won't," chuckled Dave. "That's what I call holding
out false hopes to a dog. Rip won't venture within five miles
of here to-day. Yet perhaps Towser will bag some other game for
us."
"Into the canoe with you, you loitering braves!" called Big Chief
Prescott firmly.
Away went the Gridley war canoe, gliding smoothly.
"Our craft is the 'Pathfinder'," called Hartwell, across the water.
"What do you call your boat?"
"The 'Scalp-hunter'," smiled Dick. As a matter of fact he and
his friends had forgotten to name the canoe, but he supplied the
name on the spur of the moment. It made a prompt hit with his
chums.
"You don't believe you can win any race with such paddling as
yours, do you?" Hartwell called derisively.
"We don't show all our fine points to the enemy until the battle
is on," was Prescott's amiable answer. "Even then you won't see
all our best tricks; you'll be too busy paddling to keep in sight
of us."
Only very gradually did Dick allow his crew to warm up to their
work. The Preston boys soon paddled over to the middle of the
lake, and there lay resting.
"Now, we'll go back and give them a brush," Dick murmured to his
chums. "Don't exceed any orders that I give in the brush. Don't
be at all uneasy if we find the Prestons going ahead of us."
"Haven't we got to win?" queried Dave.
"Especially after all the brag we've been throwing in their
direction?" Tom supplemented.
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