"We'll wait for you when we land," laughed Hartwell. "Mumble bumble!" Another secret signal, surely, for again the "Pathfinder" began to increase the distance from the Gridley rival. "We'd better stop, and pretend we're only fishing," muttered Tom Reade, but Dick kept grimly silent. He was watching every move of the Preston paddlers. "Why, they're leading us four lengths," muttered Darrin, in an undertone. But Prescott appeared unworried. "We'll try to brace our speed, by and by," Dick answered. "And so will the other fellows," Tom surmised. "They're not going at anything like their pace as yet." For a quarter of a mile the canoes held the same relative position. "Now, liven up," Dick called softly. "One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!" Catching the rhythm, Dick & Co. put in some good strokes, their paddling becoming faster and stronger. A length and a half of the interval was closed up. "Porky-poo!" ordered Hartwell. Answering, the Preston High School boys paddled as though fury now possessed them. They held the pace, too. "Hit it up hard, now," Dick commanded. "One, two, three, four!" Never had Gridley responded more nobly on any field of sport or other contest than now. The paddles flew, their wet blades gleaming in the air, only to disappear under the water again. Each recovery was swift, prompt rhythmic! But Hartwell's crew was also showing the stuff of which it was made. "Stop paddling---back water!" shouted Hartwell finally. The "Pathfinder" lay on the water, motionless, only two yards from the shore on which stood the blasted pines. At that same instant the Gridley High School "Scalp-hunter" was a trifle more than seven lengths astern. "That was good and warming," smiled Big Chief Dick, as the second canoe came up. "Yah, yah, yah!" retorted the Preston High School boys, betraying their delight in derisive grins. "Where is that wonderful, all-conquering way you were telling us about?" chaffed Hartwell. "You'll find out when we race," smiled Prescott calmly. "When we race?" repeated Preston's big chief. "Didn't we race just now? Or do you consider that it wasn't a race just because you weren't in it?" "It wasn't a race," Dick answered. "Merely a brush." "Brush?" repeated Hartwell indignantly. "Didn't we challenge you fellows, and didn't you accept? Also, didn't you lose?" "We lost the brush," Dick admitted. "You lost the race to us," Hartwell declared stoutly. "Preston High School beat Gridley High School by several lengths!" "Hardly that," Dick retorted coolly. "Preston High School merely distanced some boys from Gridley High School. You didn't defeat a Gridley High School canoe crew." "Why didn't we?" the Preston High School big chief questioned. "Because, if you recall all the chat we had last night, the 'Scalp-hunter's' crew isn't yet official. We haven't been authorized by the Athletic Council of Gridley High School." "Is that the way you get out of it?" blurted Hartwell.