Scarcely believing their eyes the boys crowded around the boat.
"What does this mean?" gasped Bob Somers.
"Look, look! There's a note for somebody," shouted Tom; "quick, let us see what it says."
Bob leaped lightly into the boat, and picked up an envelope, which he hastily tore open.
"Hurrah, hurrah!" he shouted. "Fellows, what do you think of this?"
Scrambling excitedly back to the wharf, while the others crowded eagerly around, he read: "The 'Rambler,' presented to Robert Somers by his father."
It seemed as if the boys had suddenly taken leave of their senses. Joining hands, they danced around and around, and a succession of lusty shouts echoed over the surrounding hills.
At length the very violence of their exertions caused a cessation of the impromptu celebration, and they threw themselves on the ground, thoroughly exhausted.
"Well, of all things in the world," burst forth Sam Randall, "isn't this the grandest?"
"What a glorious surprise," panted Bob, enthusiastically.
"Three cheers for Mr. Somers!" cried Dick Travers, and again their shouts floated over the air.
The boys were entirely unaware of the fact that their excited actions had been observed by a pair of very sharp eyes, and consequently when a step sounded close at hand it startled them not a little.
Looking up, they saw a small, unkempt individual, with a grizzly iron-gray moustache and a nose that deviated considerably from any recognized standard of beauty. He was gazing toward them with a severe frown, and, indeed, presented a rather threatening aspect. In one hand he clutched a heavy, knotted stick, while the other held a sadly battered straw hat.
"Well, well!" he exclaimed, in husky tones, as he arranged the first named article in such a manner as to assist in the task of standing erect. "Have you kids plumb lost your senses? What do you call such doings as them, anyway?" The frown deepened. "Who does this here new-fangled tub belong to?"
"To me, or, rather, the Rambler Club," answered Bob, proudly.
"I thought so, I thought so!" returned their visitor. "The way youth is pampered now, beats my comprehension. No son of mine would get any of it."
"Don't doubt that, 'Major,'" ventured Dick Travers, with a broad smile.
Zeke Tipson, or, as he was more generally called, the "Major," an appellation the source of which no one ever learned, lived in a tumble-down shack on the river's bank about a half mile distant. He cultivated a small garden, but, believing that hard work injured his constitution, managed to abstain from active employment the greater part of the time. To small boys he was an object of fear, to larger ones, the butt of their pranks, and to the older element, an eccentric character whose quaint ways furnished amusement.
"And what is going to be did with this here boat?" he went on, with cheerful disregard for grammar.
"We are going to have the grandest hunting and fishing cruise that was ever heard of, eh, Tom?" replied Sam Randall, his face shining with enthusiasm.
"Oh, don't wake me, anybody; it's a dream; it's too good to be true," said Tom, blissfully.
Zeke Tipson shook his head disapprovingly. "It ain't right—it ain't right that a parcel of boys should be allowed in a cockle-shell like that," he grumbled. "Then, like as not, you'll be taking each other for deers or bears, and a load of buckshot ain't any too healthy, I can tell you that. Why, I once know'd a—"
"We've hunted before this," put in Bob, hastily, for the "Major" had a habit of relating certain extraordinary remembrances, all noted for their length.
"Well, you might get took with some sickness," persisted Zeke, who seemed to be in a very pessimistic mood. "Now you needn't laugh. There was three fellers I know'd once, and—"
"Oh, look, here comes Nat Wingate!" exclaimed Tom Clifton, suddenly. "I believe he has been following us."
Nat, dressed with his usual care, approached jauntily across the clearing, and nodded to the boys. Then turning, he said: "Hello, 'Major,' how do you find yourself?"
"None the better for looking at you," growled Zeke, a strange light coming into his eyes.
But it is doubtful if Nat heard his remark, for he stopped short and gave a whistle of astonishment, as he took in the graceful lines of the motor boat.
"Gracious, what a beauty!" he exclaimed. "Where did it come from?"
As there was no immediate response, he continued: "Who in the world does it belong to? The 'Rambler,' why, it can't be that—"
"Yes, it's the boat that is going to carry the Rambler Club on its famous voyage," said Bob Somers, smilingly.
"But I thought you were going in the 'Lively,'" said Nat.
"So did we," returned Bob. And then he briefly explained how their good fortune had come about.
"Well, I must say that you are the luckiest fellows I ever heard of," declared Wingate, with a long breath. "It's a beautiful little craft." Then he added, glancing quickly toward Bob: "Are you really going to visit your father's land?"
"We certainly are," replied Somers.
"And leave me out, after all?"
It was an appealing question, and the silence that followed was due to the fact that the members of the club had almost exhausted their vocabulary of declinations.
Nat walked forward. "See here, fellows," he burst out, with all the earnestness at his command, "why can't you let me in? I'm willing to pay more than my share of expenses; come now, what's the use of having hard feelings?"
"We haven't any, I'm sure," responded Bob, who understood the quick, meaning glances of his companions; "and I hope you won't feel offended; but we got up this little club without ever intending to increase the membership."
"Don't let him in," growled the "Major," at this point. "He's bad enough on land, and you can't tell what he might be when he gets out on the water."
"But what harm could it do to have one more?" pleaded Nat, who allowed this remark to pass unheeded.
He spoke in such a quiet, contained tone that the Ramblers could scarcely realize that it was the usually hot-headed Nat Wingate who was talking.
"No harm, of course," responded Bob, slowly; "only, for the reasons I have so often given, the club is to be just an exclusive little affair among ourselves."
"Good!" observed the "Major," approvingly. "You kids ain't such a pack of ninnies as I first suspicioned."
Nat Wingate's manner began to change. "Don't pay any attention to him," he said, as his brown eyes flashed ominously. "For the last time, won't you vote me in, as member number six?"
Bob smiled, but shook his head slowly.
"So I'm finally refused, eh?" exclaimed Nat, his voice betraying the fact that pent-up indignation was fast getting the better of his calmness.
"Certainly," interposed Zeke.
"Your grand club is mighty exclusive, I'm sure," continued Wingate, perceiving that his last words had made no impression on the Ramblers. "You've treated me in the meanest fashion, and I'll make you regret it, mark my words. The whole thing has been just a piece of spite work."
Nat, as he spoke, walked up and down, darting angry glances from one to the other, and his tightly clenched fists showed to what extent his passions had been aroused. Evidently the sight of the motor boat had added not a little to his already intense desire to join the party.
"You're a fine one to talk about spite work," broke in Dick Travers, whose temper was hasty. "I think you had better try to remember some of the mean things you did at school."
Bob Somers gave his friend a look which effectually stopped him from continuing, but the "Major" added fuel to Wingate's passion both by action and words. He pointed his stick threateningly toward him, exclaiming emphatically: "I ain't the kind what likes to mix up in other people's affairs, but I say, boys, you did well to keep this young scamp out."
"And what is it to you?" retorted Nat, furiously. "You and your old shack are a disgrace to the neighborhood."
"Look here, boy, you'd better be a little careful," warned Zeke. "Only the other day, about five big rocks hit my door, and I know who done it, too."
"Elect him an honorary member of the club," sneered Nat. "Oh ho, I can tell you fellows one thing, you needn't think that you are the only boys who can get up a club. As sure as my name is Nat Wingate, I'll form another; and not only that," he continued, excitedly, "but we'll follow that old mud scow and make things hot wherever you go!"
"Oh, come, Nat," returned Bob, calmly; "you seem to have misunderstood the matter entirely. Look at it in a sensible fashion."
But Nat had worked himself up into a towering rage, and refused to be conciliated.
"You'll wish you had let me join," he shouted. "I never swallowed all those insults you gave me without making up my mind to pay the crowd back. And I'll remember you, too, old Zeke Tipson. Get out of here."
Had Nat looked at the "Major" he might have seen that his sharp eyes were glaring in a most peculiar fashion. The two had had several encounters, and whenever Zeke calculated the amount of damage resulting therefrom, it made him very angry indeed.
"Get out of here yourself," he cried. "I won't stand any impudence, mind you—go on, now."
Accompanying these words, he made several movements with his stick, which brought it dangerously close to Nat's ankles.
"Hold on!" protested Bob Somers. "We don't want any trouble here."
"No, no!" chimed in Brandon.
But Nat, thoroughly enraged, sprang forward with fist upraised. "I'll teach you some manners, you miserable beggar!" he shouted, with flashing eyes.
Zeke parried the blow. Then the angry man jumped forward while Nat, well aware of the fact that he was no match for him, leaped aside.
The Ramblers were about to rush between them to prevent further hostilities, when Nat himself saved them that trouble.
In his eagerness to escape, he had not taken sufficient heed of his surroundings. His spring away from Zeke landed him on the very brink of the river, where the bank was steep and slippery. His feet flew from under him, and as he began sliding down the declivity, he grasped frantically at the top of the bank. His fingers touched it, but he succeeded only in tearing out a handful of grass. "Grab me, somebody; I'm falling in!" he shouted wildly.
But it had happened so quickly that the Ramblers were powerless to render any assistance. The unfortunate Nat shot downward at an estimated speed of not less than ten feet per second and struck the water with a tremendous splash. The spray dashed in all directions, and over the placid surface wide circles moved one after another in undulating lines.
"My goodness, he has disappeared completely," exclaimed Bob.
Consternation reigned, but only for a moment. A hand was thrust above the surface, then a head, and Nat, puffing and blowing, rose to a standing posture, with the water up to his waist.
"Where's that old scarecrow?" he cried, as soon as he could get his breath. "I'll make him pay for this."
It was strange how a few moments had altered his appearance. With the water pouring off him in streams, his hair matted fantastically to his forehead and his face streaked with mud, he presented such a ludicrous spectacle that the Ramblers could hardly keep from bursting into roars of laughter.
Nat waded a few feet and seized his hat, which was just about to sink. "Don't let him get away," he cried. "If nobody ever saw an awful row before, they'd better wait until I get on that bank."
Disdainfully refusing any assistance, the speaker made his way to a place where he could climb up, and a few moments later, was standing on the greensward. His fists were tightly clenched and he presented a picture of the most uncontrollable rage. Apparently having formed an intimate acquaintance with the mud at the bottom of the river, his wet, clinging garments were decorated with generous patches of assorted shapes.
Nat's first act was to pick up a handful of loose earth, which he hurled spitefully at the "Major." "You—you," he began, his words almost choked by passion, "you old villain; you'll be in jail for this before night. My uncle will—"
But Zeke Tipson's face was stinging where some of the earth had landed with unwonted force, and he was in no humor to stand any of Nat Wingate's threats. The words were hardly out of the speaker's mouth when he once more sprang toward him, with uplifted stick.
Nat was far from being taken unawares, and this time he used commendably good judgment in his actions. He sprang nimbly to one side, and, despite the handicap of his wet clothing, began to travel over the ground at an astonishing rate. The incident was thus abruptly closed, for Zeke's clumsy movements were in striking contrast.
"He's fast as one of them new-fangled flying machines," observed the "Major," unable to repress a smile. "And I wager he won't care for no perlice to find out what he done."
At this instant, a figure was seen hastily approaching from the direction of the woods.
"My goodness, it's father!" exclaimed Bob.