It was a bright morning with a crisp, cool breeze out of the northeast. The sun was still low over the hill behind them as they paddled slowly up the stream toward the island. The trees along the shore threw green shadows far out on to the bosom of the sparkling river. It was rather hard paddling with that clumsy rowboat tagging along astern, and presently Roy turned to Dick, who, as usual, was enacting the rôle of freight in the middle of the craft. “Thought you were going to have a gasolene launch,” he said, jeeringly. “I am. It would be just the thing this morning, wouldn’t it? We could have put all this truck right into it and been at the island in a minute.” “Huh!” puffed Chub, skeptically. “I’ve written to a fellow who makes them,” Dick continued, “and he’s got just the thing we want all ready to put the engine in.” “Get him to leave the engine out,” suggested Chub, “then we won’t have so much trouble with the thing.” [Illustration: MAP OF FOX ISLAND DRAWN BY ROY PORTER CARTOGRAPHER-IN-EXTRAORDINARY JULY, 1906 ] “It’s a sixteen-footer,” continued Dick unheeding, “and has a two-horse-power motor, and only costs a hundred and sixty dollars.” “Phew!” breathed Roy. “That’s a whole lot, isn’t it?” “Not for a launch like that,” protested Dick. “No,” said Chub, judicially, “not for a launch. It would be a good deal for a piece of pie or a hard-boiled egg, but--” “Oh, you shut up,” interrupted Dick good-naturedly. “No sooner said than stung,” murmured Chub, flicking a shower of water with his paddle on to Dick’s back and bringing a howl from that youth. “Are you going to get it?” asked Roy. “He did get it,” Chub laughed. “Yes, I think so. I thought I’d wait and talk it over with you fellows. Maybe we ought to have a larger boat; sixteen feet isn’t very long--” “It’ll be all we want to row,” said Chub. “We won’t have to row it,” answered Dick warmly. “It’s a Saxon launch, and they’re as good as any made.” “How fast will it go?” Chub inquired, interestedly. “I mean when it does go?” “It’s capable of eight miles an hour.” “Humph! I’m capable of lots of things I don’t do.” “Yes, and you try to do lots of things you aren’t capable of,” responded Dick, “and judging motor-boats is one of them.” “Whereupon,” murmured Chub, “our hero bent manfully at his oar.” “How long will it take to get it?” pursued Roy. “About six days the man said,” answered Dick. “If you fellows think it’s all right I’ll send for it to-day.” “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be all right. Do you, Chub?” “Well, it’s nice to be able to go fast, you know, and I suppose that a boat with eighteen feet can go faster than one with only sixteen. If you could afford it, Dick, it would be nice to get a centipede boat that could do about a mile a minute.”