“They’re aboard,” rejoined Tubby, who was perspiringly removing cushions and other surplus gear from the fleet boat.

“That’s right; if it comes to an emergency, we may need them,” said Rob.  “Nothing like being prepared.”

“Do you think we have any show?” asked Tubby, who was to be a sort of general utility man in the crew.  Rob was to steer.

“I don’t see why not,” rejoined the other, wiping his oily hands on a bit of waste.  “The race is a handicap one, and we get an allowance on account of our engine not being as powerful as the hydroplane’s.”

The course to be run was a sort of elongated, or isosceles triangle.  The turning point was at the head of the inlet, a buoy with a big red ball on it being placed just inside the rough waters of the bar.  It made a course of about five miles.  The race for the Hampton Motor Boat Club’s cup, for which the boys and the others were entered, was twice round.

The waters about the club house were so dotted with motor craft which darted about in every direction that Commodore Wingate of the club and the other regatta officials had a hard time keeping the course clear for the contestants.  On the threat, however, that the races would be called off if a clear course was not kept, order was finally obtained.

The boys were too busy to pay much attention to the results of the other races, but a member of the club who had won the Blake trophy for the cabin cruiser boats, warned the boys to beware of the turn above the far buoy.

“It’s choppy as the dickens there,” he said, as he made his way to the club house, “and you want to take the turn easily.  Don’t ‘bank’ it, or you’ll lose more than you gain.”

The boys thanked him for his advice, and laid it to heart to be used when the race was on.

Sam’s boat having been tuned up to the last notch of readiness, Jack Curtiss strolled consequentially about on the float, making bets freely on the hydroplane’s chance of winning.

“I’ll bet you twenty-five to any odds you like that the hydroplane wins the race,” he said, addressing Colin Maxwell, the son of a well-to-do merchant from a neighboring town.  Young Maxwell had heard nothing of Jack’s mean trick in the aeroplane contest, and therefore didn’t mind talking to him.

“I like the look of the Flying Fish pretty well,” was the response, “and I’ll take you up.  You’ll have to give me odds, though.”

“Oh, certainly,” responded the bully, with a confident grin; “twenty-five to thirty, say.”

“Make it thirty-five.”

“All right; done,” said Jack.  “You know me, of course; no necessity of putting up the money.”

“Oh, not the least,” rejoined the other politely, though had he known the state of Jack’s finances he might have thought differently.

The bully went about making several bets at similar odds, until finally Bill Bender came up behind him and in a low voice warned him to be careful.