Monday and Tuesday of that week were rather uneventful days. The boys paddled steadily, and with the aid of the rapid current covered a good many miles.

On both evenings they found suitable camping places, and had some excellent sport fishing for catfish and eels by night.

The creek was almost at its normal level now, but Wednesday morning dawned amid conditions that promised a speedy repetition of the high water. The sky was hidden by murky gray clouds that hung far down toward the earth. So thick were they that no mist that blurred the hills and the windings of the faintest glimmer of the sun could peep through. A creek was in the air, and the east wind had a keen, biting touch that was more in harmony with November than July.

Some discussion ensued at first on the question of breaking camp under such circumstances, but it was finally decided in the affirmative.

"This place won't shelter us very well if a heavy rain comes on," said Ned. "The chances are that it won't rain before afternoon or night, so we had better make the most of what time we have by choosing a better spot."

The value of Ned's advice had been tested on many previous occasions, so preparations to start were hastily commenced. This was about eight o'clock in the morning, after breakfast had been eaten and the dishes cleared away.

Randy was the first one up that morning, and much to the mystification of his companions he had been working since daybreak in a thicket of young timber not far behind the camp. Just as the tent was being rolled up he made his appearance with a lurking smile on his face, and under his arm a bundle that resembled a red flannel seine wrapped tightly on its sticks.

"Hullo, Randy, what have you there?" queried Nugget.

"What is it?" exclaimed Clay, in a tone that implied some doubt as to whether he referred to Randy or the object under his arm.

But Randy was not disposed to be communicative just then.

"You'll know what it is in good time," he replied, and then turning to Ned he asked: "Can I have one of the tent poles?"

"What do you want with it?" demanded Ned. "Has it anything to do with that piece of tomfoolery?"

"Yes, it has," replied Randy aggressively. "That piece of tomfoolery, as you call it, is a sail. I'll make you fellows open your eyes after a while."

"I don't doubt it," exclaimed Ned laughingly, "There will be lots of sport in watching you try to sail on a stream like this. And what a sail, too! Why, it's made out of a red blanket! What put the notion into your head, Randy?"

"Oh, you can make all the fun of it, you please," replied Randy; "you'll all wish you had one like it after a while. Just look at that breeze blowing straight down the creek. In an hour from now it will be twice as strong, and then I'll leave you fellows so far behind that you can't overtake me in a week."

"It doesn't occur to him that the creek changes its course about every half mile," reflected Ned as he resumed his work. "If he tries the thing on he'll come to grief."

Randy was troubled by no such misgivings. He appropriated one of the jointed tent poles and lashed it on the fore deck of his canoe beside the queer looking sail. The Water Sprite, it may be said, had been built with a view to sailing, and it contained a mast hole and block just forward of the cockpit.

Not until the Jolly Rovers had been afloat an hour or two did Randy's opportunity come, for during that time the channel was one succession of short, jerky curves that encountered the wind every which way. But his patience was finally rewarded by a clear half mile stretch of water, licked into tiny undulations by a crisp down breeze.

Randy discreetly grounded the canoe on a little grass bar in mid-channel, and proceeded to rig up. His sail was merely a light weight blanket with each of its narrow ends sewed to a trimmed sapling—just like a banner, in fact. He attached this to his improvised mast, fastened each end securely, and drove the latter into the mast hole.

The Water Sprite was quite transformed by the addition. It presented a quaint, foreign appearance, for the high square sail was exactly like that of a Chinese junk, while its flaming red color was irresistibly suggestive of the craft that ply in Venetian lagoons.

So Randy thought, anyhow, and he was more than pleased with his handiwork. He applied the finishing touches by tying a cord to each lower corner of the sail, and by this device he proudly hoped to control the movements of the canoe.

Randy was considerably overestimating his skill as a sailing master, but no one could have made him believe it at the time. He proudly seated himself, and with a shove of the paddle freed the canoe from the bar.

The breeze quickly bulged out the thirty square feet of sail, and away went the Water Sprite like a Chinese pirate in chase of booty. It gained speed with every instant, and swept by the sluggish little fleet of canoes under full pressure.

Randy turned around to laugh and wave his hand. He had to admit to himself that he was very glad the boys were now in the rear, for the sail hung so low that he could see no further than the prow of his canoe. Still more disconcerting was the fact that the cords were useless, since the least jerk to right or left threatened to capsize the canoe instantly.

"I must keep a sharp eye on the shores if I want to stay in mid-channel," thought Randy. "I'm good for half a mile of this, anyhow, before the wind changes."

But his calculation did not embrace any possible obstructions that might lie in the way, and Randy was considerably surprised to find himself grounded on a ledge of rocks before five minutes had passed. It was hard work to get the canoe free, and just as he succeeded the boys caught up with him.

"Better take the sail down now," suggested Ned. "You'll surely run into something if you don't."

"No danger," laughed Randy. "I'll stop before I get to the curve. This is great sport. You fellows just ought to try it."

He sent the Water Sprite off again by a touch of his paddle and skimmed swiftly away from his half envious companions, leaving a trail of foam behind him.

It was aggravating to be thus outstrippped and the boys started to paddle with all their might. For a little while they actually seemed to gain on Randy, but a lively puff of wind came down the creek, and the Water Sprite took a spurt that made the chase hopeless.

The wind had veered a slight degree, and without knowing it Randy was now paddling straight for a bushy point of land that jutted out from the left shore exactly where the channel made its abrupt bend. Just below this little promontory, and in midstream, was anchored a long, squarely built flatboat.

It had three occupants. On a low stool in the very center sat a tremendously stout man in a blue flannel shirt and wide brimmed straw hat. Beside him was a lean, scrawny man sitting on an upturned bucket. The other end of the boat was occupied by a yellow dog, whose eyes were fixed with intent longing on a lunch basket a few feet distant.

The big fat man held in one hand a light, slender fishing rod, while the little lean man supported on his knees a twenty foot pole that looked like a young tree denuded of its branches. Both were waiting patiently for a bite—as was also the dog—and under the circumstances it did not occur to them to look around.

Meanwhile the Water Sprite swept onward to the jutting point of land, and missed it by little more than a hair's breadth, just as Randy turned pale with the sudden discovery of his danger. He breathed easier as the canoe passed swiftly on toward mid-channel. He could see nothing ahead, and was therefore blissfully ignorant of the obstruction that now lay in his path.

Just at this moment the three boys, coming on behind, caught a glimpse of the anchored boat and were quick to grasp the situation.

"Look out, Randy!" cried Ned at the top of his voice. "Danger ahead! Paddle to the right, quick!"

Randy turned around and looked stupidly at his companions for an instant. Then he seized the paddle and tried hard to follow Ned's advice. Too late! The Water Sprite was forging ahead now under full pressure, and was not to be diverted from its course.

The two occupants of the boat had heard Ned's warning cry without catching the words, but they did not turn around because each happened to have a bite at that moment.

Then the little man jerked out a plump catfish, and as he reached for the line, which had swung behind him, he saw the flaming red sail looming almost overhead. He had barely time to spring to his feet and utter a terrific yell, when the collision came.

The shock tossed the fat man off the stool and threw him across the edge of the boat. As the little man was knocked down at the same instant, the one sided pressure naturally caused the boat to tip, and over it went, throwing fishermen, dog, and all into the water.