George could afford to laugh at the sight, for he still held his footing on the wet and slippery raft; but he laughed too soon. John took another aim and fired a second shot. It hit the boards of the raft just back of George, who was not aware of it, as it simply squashed all over without making a noise. He moved back a trifle to gain a surer footing, and that action was his own undoing. His foot slipped on the slippery mush, and down he came upon the planks. Again the tipsy raft dove, and again George slid off into the stream. The middle of the stream was swollen by the rains to a depth of four feet, and Jim only being three feet high, could not be seen, but he could paddle a bit with legs and arms in poor imitation of swimming, so George and Jack found him wildly kicking and striking the water in a vain endeavor to float. John doubled over in glee at his marksmanship, and the two girls, running to see what the new commotion was about, saw the three boys in the creek, trying to board the raft. With every pull and extra weight on the warship, it dipped gracefully and slipped the children’s eager, clutching hands from its edges. “You’ll have to wade back to England and sail again,” yelled John comfortingly. “You just wait till we get over there!” threatened Jack, who suspected the power back of that apple. “We’ll wait all right! Long time comin’, too!” roared John, slapping his knees. While Jack pulled Jim to shallow water, George managed to haul the now water-logged raft back to the English shore. The pasteboard cartons and drum were thoroughly soaked by this time and showed signs of collapse, but the soap-box withstood the elements in a fine manner. During the third trial to cross the tempestuous seas, the cartons holding oatmeal and hominy spread out and the cereals floated down on the face of the creek. The pasteboard sides, now flattened out and soaked, were of no use, so they were kicked off; but in the sudden jerking Jack and George clutched each other madly, or they would have slid into the water for the third time. “I guess Boston will never get a speck of that cargo!” laughed John, both hands behind his back holding large-sized decayed cannon-balls from the apple tree. “What’ll you bet?” challenged Jack. “Bet you three shots to your every one that you won’t land it!” taunted John. “Take you up! If we land anything we take three shots at you. If you keep us from landing, you have three at us,” cried George, the fire of battle shining in his eyes. “Here, John, you wade out and upset them,” whispered Anne mischievously. “They won’t count that as fair!” exclaimed Martha. “I’ve got a better idea. I’ll get up on that tree-trunk leaning out over the creek and you girls can hand me some heavy clumps of dirt, wood or rocks. I’ll drop it over on the raft so it will tip and roll off the rest of the cargo,” whispered John.