It looked as though Nat Wingate's deliberate disregard of consequences was going to bear serious fruit.
Before the "Rambler" had righted herself, Bob Somers shut off the power, and the thoroughly angry boys, who instantly scrambled to their feet, crowded aft.
"We've had enough of this kind of business!" shouted Bob Somers, with flashing eyes. "Whatever damage has been done to this boat, Nat Wingate, you'll have to pay for!"
"He ought to be arrested," chimed in Travers, indignantly. His fists, tightly clenched, he shook toward the captain of the Nimrods, who was standing at the wheel with a peculiar look on his face. He did not seem to comprehend what had happened.
"The rudder is bent all out of shape and the rail badly dented," said Sam Randall, presently. "Lucky the propeller isn't damaged."
"I'm awful sorry, boys!" called young Wingate, but there was something in his tone which belied the words "I thought we would just clear you. It was all a joke."
"Joke!" exclaimed Bob, hotly. "We've had enough of such jokes. If there are any more of them you'll get into trouble."
"I only meant to have a little fun, I tell you," pleaded Nat.
"Your ideas on that subject must be peculiar."
"I'll tow you back to Kingswood, and pay for all damages," continued Nat. "What more can you ask? I leave it to everybody—isn't that a fair offer?"
"But we don't want to return to Kingswood," answered Bob, coldly, although he was surprised at Wingate's offer.
"You can't continue the trip with a rudder bent out of shape like that," argued Nat. "Your boat is helpless, I'm afraid. Let us fix this thing up right."
"Why not tow them to the next town?" proposed John Hackett.
Nat shook his head. "No, no!" he said, earnestly; "Kingswood is nearer. It was my fault that their boat was damaged, and I want to do the right thing."
Bob did not answer.
"Come now, is it agreed?" added Nat, persuasively. All the sarcastic, half-sneering expression had left his face, and he evidently meant what he said.
"No, it is not agreed to," returned Bob, decidedly. "All this could have been prevented, if you had only acted with a little bit of common sense."
"Then you won't accept my offer?"
A chorus of negative responses came from the Ramblers, Bob Somers adding, in a voice which betrayed his indignant feelings, as he glanced at the damaged rudder: "I believe we can get along without assistance—at least, we don't wish any from the Nimrods."
"Oh, very well," returned Nat, with a slight change of tone; "you can't say that I wasn't willing to do all I could to make amends. I'll tow you ashore, now, if you say the word."
"Of course, we'll have to," spoke up Ted Pollock.
John Hackett picked up a line and prepared to heave it.
But "Captain" Bob was too much disgusted to parley with them further. He turned away, and started the engine at half speed.
The "Rambler," however, acted, as Sam put it, "like a drunken man." At the mercy of every conflicting current, she wabbled, then slowly began to swing around until the prow was headed for the opposite shore.
"Get out the oars, boys," said Bob. "We'll have to rig up a temporary rudder."
"Perhaps we had better let them tow us ashore," ventured Tom Clifton, who was disposed to be more timid than his companions.
"Not on your life," said Bob, firmly. "We'll manage it."
The crew of the "Nimrod" watched their movements with interest, and although quite a wide stretch of water now separated them, the Ramblers could hear their voices and catch an occasional word. It sounded very much as if they were wrangling among themselves.
After many trials, Bob and his companions were able to handle the oars in such a fashion as to steer the "Rambler" on a comparatively straight course. No suitable landing-place could be seen on either shore, and, accordingly, they continued slowly down the river.
"It means several hours' work to get the rudder back in shape," declared Bob, at length.
"And it never will be a 'thing of beauty and a joy forever,'" observed Brandon.
"Nat Wingate and 'Hatchet' are the most reckless fellows in Kingswood," asserted Sam; "I can't understand how Mr. Parsons Wingate would ever trust either of them with a boat. See, here they come now."
The "Nimrod" was approaching rapidly.
"Ho—ho—oh ho!" roared Nat, lustily, through his megaphone. "Cap'n Somers, of the boatlet 'Rambler,' are you going back to Kingswood with us?"
"No, we are not!" snapped Dick Travers, with all the force at his command.
"Let the Cap speak for himself, sonny."
"I've nothing more to say on the subject," replied Bob.
"Well, you are making a mistake," shouted the chief Pirate of the Bounding Deep, as the "Nimrod" scudded by.
No further attention was paid to them, the boys having all they could do to keep the "Rambler" on its course. They came at last to what looked like a favorable spot, and it was decided to go ashore.
This was not accomplished without a great deal of trouble, all hands feeling greatly relieved when they at length stood upon the bank.
While Bob assisted in unshipping the rudder, Sam Randall went off in search of a flat stone. Hammers were then brought out of the tool-chest and all stood around, ready to give assistance and advice.
"Sounds like the Anvil Chorus from Trovatore," remarked Dave, as the work began.
They found the task more difficult than any of them had anticipated, the force of the blow having twisted the rudder almost out of resemblance to its proper shape.
It was at least two hours before the Ramblers, taking turns with the hammer, were sufficiently well satisfied to replace the rudder. It was then decided to lunch on shore, whereupon Dave, with great promptness, stretched himself out under the shade of a tree and went to sleep.
The others brought out smoked tongue, cheese and preserves. Bob declared that it would be unkind to wake the poet laureate the moment he began to slumber, but much more unkind to deprive him of a meal, and they therefore had no alternative but to arouse him.
"Been in school, composing the great American poem?" queried Sam, jocularly.
"Neither; I dreamed that the 'Rambler' had turned into a rowboat," responded Dave, his eyes blinking drowsily. "I must say, I was always dead against using a pair of oars. It's no sport for a white man."
"Or a lazy one," said Sam, and even Dave laughed in spite of aching arms.
The spot was very charming. Off to the east lay a low line of hills, covered with verdure, while rolling fields and picturesque clumps of trees added to the charm of the landscape.
As much time had been lost, however, they concluded not to linger. The rudder worked as well as usual, and the "Rambler" was pushed to its fullest capacity.
"This is the kind of sport I like," said Dave, allowing his hand to drag in the cool water. "My, but I'm glad the oars are out of sight."
"When are we going to do any fishing?" asked Tom Clifton, suddenly.
"Plenty of time for that when we get to Lake Minnewago," responded Bob; "I've heard that the fishing there is fine."
Occasionally boats were passed, and the swiftly flying "Rambler" attracted considerable attention.
"There's another of them crazy toy boats ahead," shouted the occupant of a clumsy sloop, so far away that his words scarcely reached their ears. "She nearly run me down, and I was going to—"
But what the gentleman's intentions were could not be learned, for they immediately passed out of hearing, but judging from his manner they concluded that he was much wrought up over something.
"Nat will get his boat broken into little bits, if he keeps up his funny tricks," observed Bob.
The Ramblers could not help being curious to know what had happened.
Several hours glided by, during which the boys were treated to a succession of views which Dave declared were so charming as to give him an inspiration for a grand poem.
"The question before the Rambler Club is this," observed Sam: "When are we going to read one of these mysterious effusions?"
"Going to put Bryant in his proper place, Chubby?" asked Dick.
An expressive grin crossed Dave's face.
"His poems sometimes remind me of mine," he admitted.
"Let us know the worst," groaned Sam. "Can't you give us a small dose now?"
"Suspense is awful," chimed in Bob. "Fellows, we want to get at the bottom of this. What kind of stuff are you scribbling, Dave?"
"You may find out some time," smiled the stout boy.
"Turn a little loose on us, now."
"Not yet," drawled Dave; "it wouldn't be nice for me to spoil this part of the trip."
"You're a lazy duffer, anyway," observed Sam.
Dave laughed, leaned over the side of the boat and let his hand trail in the cool water.
"Got her going at full speed, Bob?" asked Dick.
"Up to the top notch," replied the captain.
The boys moved about, sometimes in the bow, then in the stern, enjoying the pretty views which constantly opened out before them.
"Is that little speck ahead the Trailers, or do my eyes deceive me?" asked Sam Randall, at length.
"No! You are quite right," answered Bob, after a glance through his field-glass. "They have come to a stop, with the 'Nimrod' turned broadside to the stream."
They were now approaching a place where the river widened slightly. Several long, flat islands, covered with reeds, divided it into channels, but all except the main one appeared to be quite narrow. The country to the left was flat and extended off in the distance as far as the eye could reach.
In about fifteen minutes, the "Rambler" drew near to the other boat, which was being kept in the same position by a little manœuvering.
Nat turned his inseparable megaphone toward them. He seemed to have recovered all his old-time sarcastic manner.
"Come on! Come right in front of us!" he bawled. "We didn't hit you quite right last time."
A loud sound, not capable of being described in a few words, issued from the megaphone, then a clear voice: "Don't you dare to forget that we are the Pirates of the Bounding Deep."
"Of the bounding deep!" echoed John Hackett and the others.
"Do you think he would have the audacity to run into us again?" asked Dick Travers. "I wouldn't mind giving them a chance, just to find out."
It seemed so apparent that the Trailers were getting ready for hasty action, that no one thought it worth while to answer this remark.
Bob, however, turned sharply to the left, having decided to take no chances, and pass astern.
"Good-bye, Nat!" he cried, waving his hand, as the "Rambler," tearing at full speed, darted past, well astern.
With absolutely no warning, a peculiar grating sound came to the ears of Bob and his companions, while the motor boat began to wabble in a most alarming fashion. As the boys looked at each other in dismay, a severe shock jarred the craft from stem to stern, then it gave a convulsive shiver, and with a suddenness that pitched the Ramblers in a confused heap, turned partly on its side, and came to an abrupt stop. The propeller, raised to the surface, churned and splashed the muddy water in all directions. They had run hard aground on a treacherous sand-bank.
To add to the unpleasantness of their situation, peal after peal of laughter came from the occupants of the other boat.
"Oh ho! Something has happened to our little ancient mariners," shouted Nat, between bursts of merriment.
"What brilliant seamanship," cried John Hackett. "Oh, my stars, do they take their boat for an automobile?"
The Ramblers could not help but realize that there was a humorous side to the situation, but it failed to appeal to them. Of course the motor was instantly stopped, and they proceeded, for the second time that day, to take stock of damages.
"Why didn't you have the bottom of the river removed?" called Nat. "It's in the way, anyhow, and you might have known what would happen."
A fresh outburst of mirth came from the "Nimrod."
Bob and his followers were not disposed to accept the new turn in events philosophically.
The irrepressible Nat was rattling off a string of comments, accompanied by blasts on the megaphone and shouts from his comrades.
Presently he brought forth a Roman candle, and, lighting the fuse, cried, as its sharp popping sounded: "Whoop la! Signal of distress. Serious accident to a barklet. Captain mistakes bottom of river for surface."
"Did you know that this sand-bank was here?" demanded Sam Randall, angrily.
"We told you to pass in front," laughed John Hackett, "and you wouldn't do it, so the catastrophe is on your own head."
"Yes, and you said—"
"Were you green enough to suppose that we would run you down on purpose?" interposed Nat. "Why that would have been an awful thing to do, even for pirates."
"You try any more funny business on us, and you'll get in the biggest scrap you ever had, Nat Wingate," cried Bob, angrily.
"What's that?" said Nat.
"You heard what I said. You've been too gay, altogether, and we won't stand for it."
"Christopher! If you were silly enough to run on a sand-bank, I can't help it."
"You stopped here on purpose, and—"
"Don't get too fresh, Somers. It's not healthy," bawled John Hackett.
"How can a little 'salt' be so fresh?" cried Nat.
"You don't want to forget what I said," warned Bob. "This is the last mean job you are going to work on us."
"That's so!" added Sam Randall. "We'll spill the whole bunch of you in the river next time."
"Listen to skinny," sneered Nat. "Ha, ha! Why don't you get out and blow the old scow off?"
"Come on, fellows, let's get to work," said Bob.
He pulled out a couple of oars, handing one to Dave.
These were stuck in the sand at the bow. They were placed diagonally, forming a sort of figure X, the centre of which rested against the cutwater.
This gave them a good leverage, but it was difficult to get a firm hold on the sandy bottom. Even the engine, reversed at full speed, accomplished nothing. The Ramblers, however, tugged away, until the perspiration streamed over their faces, compelled, all the while, to listen to a multitude of suggestions from the Nimrods.
Slow progress was made. With a tenacity that was most discouraging, the sand-bar held its captive, and every inch gained was at the expense of great effort.
"Mariners!" bellowed Nat, at length. "I say, brave sailor boys, we're off. Good-bye. Look out for pirates and other perils of the deep."
Bob could hardly repress a laugh, his manner was so comical.
"A mean lot," grumbled Dick, as he wiped his face and looked after the fast departing Nimrods; "I never heard of such a contemptible trick."
"It's a great pity that they should put their wits to such a use," said Bob. "We might as well admit that it was nicely calculated. Next time, if they try anything further, we must be prepared for them."
"We certainly fell easy victims," added Tom Clifton. "And I suppose Nat will tell the story to everybody he knows."
"Hurrah!" cried Dick. "The 'Rambler' moved at least six inches that time. Now, Dave Brandon, another tug!"
The poet laureate was endowed with considerable strength. Spurred on by their success, he gave a prodigious pull, with the startling result that the oar promptly slipped out of the mud, while the would-be author of the great American poem tumbled unceremoniously backward.
Of course he was not hurt. Dave never seemed to suffer much from a mishap. He laughingly arose, and resumed his work.
At the end of another quarter of an hour's work, the "Rambler" slid off the bar into deep water.
The afternoon was drawing to a close, and all thought it best to land at the nearest suitable place. This was found a short distance further on, in a sheltered and picturesque little cove.