"But I don't
see how they can be, for Larry's boat is here"--he had dashed up again to
the camp--"and Mr. Hersey's, that's the one they would take"--surveying the
collection of rowboats and dories drawn up on the beach--"and Webb's
father's and Porter Knapp's." Besides, there was a goodly number of others,
all in such situations as by no means suggested a party expected to be on
the pond at short notice that morning.
"Well, I'm going out, anyway," declared Joel, snapping his fingers, "and
catch up with them. Most likely they've taken the fishing-tackle; I won't
stop for that." So, pushing off his row-boat, he picked up the oars and
headed down the pond in the direction most likely in his mind to overtake
them.
But although he pulled lustily at his oars and ran his boat in and out the
curves and hallooed and shouted, he didn't catch a glimpse of them; and the
pine groves and wooded glens that ran down to the curving bank only echoed
his own calls, or sent a bird note out to him. There wasn't the first
suggestion of a boy anywhere about.
"Where in the world are they?" cried Joel in vexation, resting on his oars.
"Hi--there they are!" He turned suddenly, knocked against one of the oars,
it slipped, and before he knew what it was about, there it was in the
water. And to make matters worse, the sound that had filled him with
delight proved to be a big, black dog, scrambling through a thicket of
underbrush, and coming out to stare at him from the edge of the pond.
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