RANDY GOES SAILING
Monday and Tuesday of that week were rather uneventful days. The boys
paddled steadily, and with the aid of the rapid current covered a good
many miles.
On both evenings they found suitable camping places, and had some
excellent sport fishing for catfish and eels by night.
The creek was almost at its normal level now, but Wednesday morning
dawned amid conditions that promised a speedy repetition of the high
water. The sky was hidden by murky gray clouds that hung far down toward
the earth. So thick were they that no mist that blurred the hills and
the windings of the faintest glimmer of the sun could peep through. A
creek was in the air, and the east wind had a keen, biting touch that
was more in harmony with November than July.
Some discussion ensued at first on the question of breaking camp under
such circumstances, but it was finally decided in the affirmative.
"This place won't shelter us very well if a heavy rain comes on," said
Ned. "The chances are that it won't rain before afternoon or night, so
we had better make the most of what time we have by choosing a better
spot."
The value of Ned's advice had been tested on many previous occasions, so
preparations to start were hastily commenced. This was about eight
o'clock in the morning, after breakfast had been eaten and the dishes
cleared away.
Randy was the first one up that morning, and much to the mystification
of his companions he had been working since daybreak in a thicket of
young timber not far behind the camp. Just as the tent was being rolled
up he made his appearance with a lurking smile on his face, and under
his arm a bundle that resembled a red flannel seine wrapped tightly on
its sticks.
"Hullo, Randy, what have you there?" queried Nugget.
"What is it?" exclaimed Clay, in a tone that implied some doubt as to
whether he referred to Randy or the object under his arm.
But Randy was not disposed to be communicative just then.
"You'll know what it is in good time," he replied, and then turning to
Ned he asked: "Can I have one of the tent poles?"
"What do you want with it?" demanded Ned. "Has it anything to do with
that piece of tomfoolery?"
"Yes, it has," replied Randy aggressively. "That piece of tomfoolery,
as you call it, is a sail. I'll make you fellows open your eyes after a
while."
"I don't doubt it," exclaimed Ned laughingly, "There will be lots of
sport in watching you try to sail on a stream like this. And what a
sail, too! Why, it's made out of a red blanket! What put the notion into
your head, Randy?"
"Oh, you can make all the fun of it, you please," replied Randy; "you'll
all wish you had one like it after a while. Just look at that breeze
blowing straight down the creek. In an hour from now it will be twice as
strong, and then I'll leave you fellows so far behind that you can't
overtake me in a week."
"It doesn't occur to him that the creek changes its course about every
half mile," reflected Ned as he resumed his work. "If he tries the thing
on he'll come to grief."
Randy was troubled by no such misgivings. He appropriated one of the
jointed tent poles and lashed it on the fore deck of his canoe beside
the queer looking sail. The Water Sprite, it may be said, had been built
with a view to sailing, and it contained a mast hole and block just
forward of the cockpit.
Not until the Jolly Rovers had been afloat an hour or two did Randy's
opportunity come, for during that time the channel was one succession of
short, jerky curves that encountered the wind every which way. But his
patience was finally rewarded by a clear half mile stretch of water,
licked into tiny undulations by a crisp down breeze.
Randy discreetly grounded the canoe on a little grass bar in mid-channel,
and proceeded to rig up. His sail was merely a light weight blanket with
each of its narrow ends sewed to a trimmed sapling--just like a banner,
in fact. He attached this to his improvised mast, fastened each end
securely, and drove the latter into the mast hole.
The Water Sprite was quite transformed by the addition. It presented a
quaint, foreign appearance, for the high square sail was exactly like
that of a Chinese junk, while its flaming red color was irresistibly
suggestive of the craft that ply in Venetian lagoons.
So Randy thought, anyhow, and he was more than pleased with his
handiwork. He applied the finishing touches by tying a cord to each
lower corner of the sail, and by this device he proudly hoped to control
the movements of the canoe.
Randy was considerably overestimating his skill as a sailing master, but
no one could have made him believe it at the time. He proudly seated
himself, and with a shove of the paddle freed the canoe from the bar.
The breeze quickly bulged out the thirty square feet of sail, and away
went the Water Sprite like a Chinese pirate in chase of booty. It gained
speed with every instant, and swept by the sluggish little fleet of
canoes under full pressure.
Randy turned around to laugh and wave his hand. He had to admit to
himself that he was very glad the boys were now in the rear, for the
sail hung so low that he could see no further than the prow of his
canoe. Still more disconcerting was the fact that the cords were
useless, since the least jerk to right or left threatened to capsize the
canoe instantly.
"I must keep a sharp eye on the shores if I want to stay in mid-channel,"
thought Randy. "I'm good for half a mile of this, anyhow, before the
wind changes."
But his calculation did not embrace any possible obstructions that might
lie in the way, and Randy was considerably surprised to find himself
grounded on a ledge of rocks before five minutes had passed. It was hard
work to get the canoe free, and just as he succeeded the boys caught up
with him.
"Better take the sail down now," suggested Ned. "You'll surely run into
something if you don't."
"No danger," laughed Randy. "I'll stop before I get to the curve. This
is great sport. You fellows just ought to try it."
He sent the Water Sprite off again by a touch of his paddle and skimmed
swiftly away from his half envious companions, leaving a trail of foam
behind him.
It was aggravating to be thus outstrippped and the boys started to
paddle with all their might. For a little while they actually seemed to
gain on Randy, but a lively puff of wind came down the creek, and the
Water Sprite took a spurt that made the chase hopeless.
The wind had veered a slight degree, and without knowing it Randy was
now paddling straight for a bushy point of land that jutted out from the
left shore exactly where the channel made its abrupt bend. Just below
this little promontory, and in midstream, was anchored a long, squarely
built flatboat.
It had three occupants. On a low stool in the very center sat a
tremendously stout man in a blue flannel shirt and wide brimmed straw
hat. Beside him was a lean, scrawny man sitting on an upturned bucket.
The other end of the boat was occupied by a yellow dog, whose eyes were
fixed with intent longing on a lunch basket a few feet distant.
The big fat man held in one hand a light, slender fishing rod, while the
little lean man supported on his knees a twenty foot pole that looked
like a young tree denuded of its branches. Both were waiting patiently
for a bite--as was also the dog--and under the circumstances it did not
occur to them to look around.
Meanwhile the Water Sprite swept onward to the jutting point of land,
and missed it by little more than a hair's breadth, just as Randy turned
pale with the sudden discovery of his danger. He breathed easier as the
canoe passed swiftly on toward mid-channel. He could see nothing ahead,
and was therefore blissfully ignorant of the obstruction that now lay in
his path.
Just at this moment the three boys, coming on behind, caught a glimpse
of the anchored boat and were quick to grasp the situation.
"Look out, Randy!" cried Ned at the top of his voice. "Danger ahead!
Paddle to the right, quick!"
Randy turned around and looked stupidly at his companions for an
instant. Then he seized the paddle and tried hard to follow Ned's
advice. Too late! The Water Sprite was forging ahead now under full
pressure, and was not to be diverted from its course.
The two occupants of the boat had heard Ned's warning cry without
catching the words, but they did not turn around because each happened
to have a bite at that moment.
Then the little man jerked out a plump catfish, and as he reached for
the line, which had swung behind him, he saw the flaming red sail
looming almost overhead. He had barely time to spring to his feet and
utter a terrific yell, when the collision came.
The shock tossed the fat man off the stool and threw him across the edge
of the boat. As the little man was knocked down at the same instant, the
one sided pressure naturally caused the boat to tip, and over it went,
throwing fishermen, dog, and all into the water.