“I--I’ll have you fellers put in prison for this!” growled the farmer. But he was far more subdued than they’d ever seen him, and he swung his long legs over the railing and strode to the gangway at the rear. “What you going to do with my gun?” he demanded. “Never you mind about your gun,” said Chub. “You git!” Mr. Ewing “got.” “Throw off those ropes, fellows,” said Chub, “and bring them aboard.” He picked up the farmer’s gun, unloaded it, and tossed it onto the bank. “Nothing but birdshot, after all,” he scoffed as he glanced at the shells. Mr. Ewing only grunted as he picked up his gun. Then, “You’re a pretty cute lot, you are, but you wait until the next time, by gum!” “There won’t be any next time, by gum,” laughed Chub. Dick and Roy, keeping watchful glances on the farmer, brought the ropes aboard. “Start her up,” said Chub to Dick. Then he handed his shot-gun to Roy. “See that he doesn’t try any tricks,” he said. “I’ll go up and take the wheel. I want to get out of here before the constable comes.” The farmer stood a little way off observing them sourly. The propeller began to churn and the _Slow Poke_ waddled off into deep water. Chub threw the wheel hard over and the boat swung its nose around until it pointed down-stream. Then he called for full speed and the _Slow Poke_ made off in a hurry. “My love to Carlo!” cried Chub from the wheel-house. “Tell him I hope he chokes!” added Roy vindictively. At that moment a man in a faded blue coat with brass buttons came out of the woods and hurried toward the farmer. Hasty explanations followed on the part of the latter. Chub put his lips to the speaking-tube. “Got her full speed, Dick?” he called. “Yes,” was the answer. “All right. Our friend, the constable, has arrived. Keep her going.” The _Slow Poke_ was now far out of the cove and making good time down the river. Roy waved a polite farewell to the two figures on shore; the whistle croaked, and the next minute the wooded point had shut them from view. Roy hurried up to Chub. “What are you going down the river for?” he asked. “Because they may send out warrants for us,” answered Chub. “I want them to think we’re going this way. After a while we’ll turn around, go over toward the other shore and come back. I’ve got to get rid of these wet clothes.” When he came back, once more in conventional attire, he headed the boat across to the opposite shore, turned her and crept upstream again. Roy brought his field-glasses up and they searched the shore of the cove as they went by. But there was no one in sight. “I wonder if he’s had enough?” pondered Roy. “I’ll bet he hasn’t. I’ll bet if we came back here fifty years from now we’d find him sitting on the fence outside his gate with that old popgun in his lap, waiting for us. You don’t know the--the indomitable will of our dear friend, Job Ewing.” “Jim,” corrected Roy.