The boat catches the wind, starts suddenly up-stream, as suddenly changes its mind, veers about, rams the landing, backs off, charges a group of boys on skates, and then stands motionless with its head into the wind and laughs so that its sail flaps. It is now discovered that there is room on the yacht for but three fellows at the most, and every one save Carl begs to be allowed to sacrifice his pleasure and remain at home. The choice falls to Stewart, and he joins the chorus with a countenance eloquent of relief. Carl, Dick, and Trevor huddle together on the cockpit, and a portion of the chorus shoves the yacht’s head about. The sail fills, and the yacht glides off up-stream in a strong breeze, to the jeers and biting sarcasms of the chorus, many of whom pretend to weep agonizedly into their handkerchiefs. The Sleet had been delivered and paid for the preceding Wednesday. She was an old-style boat with a length of sixteen feet and a sail area altogether too small for her size. A new coat of brilliant--and as yet but partly dried--crimson paint hid a multitude of weak places. The cockpit, upholstered with a piece of faded red carpet, was barely large enough to allow the three boys to huddle onto it. The boat-house and landing, Stewart, and the contemptuous chorus were soon left behind, and The Sleet gained momentum every second. Carl held the tiller, and Dick and Trevor held their breaths. The wind was straight abaft, but the cold made the boys huddle closely together to protect their faces. The academy buildings faded from sight in the gray afternoon haze, and the river stretched cold and bleak before them. “How fast are we going?” asked Dick. “I don’t know; pretty well, I guess,” answered Carl. “Fine, isn’t it?” “Yes,” replied Dick, doubtfully. “Only I don’t think we ought to go far away, you know; eh, Trevor?” “Oh, let her rip. What’s the difference whether we get killed here or farther up? Pull open the throttle, Carl!” “Look out for your heads, then; I’m going to swing her across to the other side.” Carl moved the tiller to starboard, and the yacht tacked toward the farther shore at a truly alarming speed. “She’s going awful fast, Carl,” gasped Dick. “Pshaw! this is nothing. If there was only a decent wind----” “Wow, Carl, she’s keeling over!” yelled Trevor. The starboard runner was a whole foot above the ice. The sensation was distinctly unpleasant, and even Carl seemed not to relish it. “Let’s see,” he muttered. “Oh, yes.” He moved the tiller cautiously, and the flighty runner settled down upon the surface once more. “That’s better,” gasped Dick. “Let’s turn here and go back, fellows,” he suggested with a fine semblance of carelessness. Carl grinned. “Dick’s scared silly, Trevor,” he shouted. “Well, so’m I,” answered Trevor. “And so are you, only you won’t let on. The bally thing goes so fast that it makes you feel funny inside you. But it _is_ fun, Carl. _Look out for the bank!_”