"Oh, you beggar!" exclaimed Joel, not to the dog, but to the oar drifting
off quickly. It was an easy thing, however, so he thought, to recover it,
and he made no special haste to paddle along as best he might after it.
Just at this moment another boat came suddenly in sight around a curve. It
didn't hold Joel's friends, but a wholly different set, some city boys who
had no rights on the pond. And having stolen their opportunity, and helped
themselves to a boat down below, they meant to have as good a time as
possible, knowing it would probably be their last. So here was a grand
chance, a boy alone in a rowboat, and at their mercy, one of his oars
drifting off.
"Hi--fellows!" When they saw it, they yelled with glee.
The black dog on the bank, who belonged to them and was following, as best
he might, their course, danced about and gnashed his teeth in his rage that
he couldn't join actively in the excitement, sniffing at the water and
drawing back as it lapped his feet.
"Now then, look alive," cried the one who appeared to be the leader, and
the whole crew bent to their oars with a right good will; and grinning all
over their faces with the prospect of fun ahead, they made straight for
Joel in his boat.
Joel drew himself up, his black eyes flashing, and paddled with all his
might. But it was no use; his boat went round and round, or zigzagged
along, and in a trice the unlucky oar was seized by the triumphant crew, as
it was drifting off into some lily pads, and drawn with a worse yell than
ever into their boat.
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