At a rather slow, easy dip, the “Scalp-hunter” ranged up near the “Pathfinder.”

“All ready there, Gridley?” called Hartwell rather impatiently.

“As ready as we’re going to be,” said Dick.

“Flying start, or from a stop?”

“Either,” Dick nodded.

“Then,” proposed Hartwell, “move along until your prow is flush with ours.  When I give the word both crews paddle for all they’re worth.  Steer for the two blasted pines at the lower end of the lake.”

“That’s good,” Dick agreed.

Very gently the war canoe ranged alongside, her bark sides, well-oiled, glistening in the sunlight.  The Preston canoe was not of bark, but of cedar frame, covered with canvas.

Hartwell evidently wanted a wholly fair race, for he even allowed the “Scalp-hunter’s” prow the lead of a couple of feet before he shouted: 

“Go it!”

Amid a great flashing of paddles the two canoes started.  The Preston High School craft soon obtained a lead of a foot or so, and held it.  Now the contest was a stubborn one.  Gridley gained two feet more.

“You see,” called Dick in a low voice, “this is the Gridley way.”

“Is it?” Hartwell inquired.  “Hanky-pank!”

Plainly enough the last two words were a signal.  Though the Preston High School boys did not make much visible change in their style or speed of dip, the “Pathfinder” now gained perceptibly.  Within a minute she had a lead of a clean ten feet, and seemed likely to increase the interval.

“Why don’t you come along, Gridley?” called back the big chief in the leading canoe.

“Too early,” smiled Dick.  Nor did he allow the Gridley boys to increase their speed.  Presently the “Pathfinder” led by two lengths.

“Why didn’t you tell us,” Hartwell demanded over his shoulder, “that the much vaunted Gridley way is ’way to the rear?”

“We haven’t reached the pines yet, have we?” Dick asked.

“No; and you won’t, to-day, unless you push that clumsy tub of yours along faster.”

“Don’t wait for us,” Dick answered goodnaturedly.  “We’ll be here after a little while.”

“We’ll wait for you when we land,” laughed Hartwell.  “Mumble bumble!”

Another secret signal, surely, for again the “Pathfinder” began to increase the distance from the Gridley rival.

“We’d better stop, and pretend we’re only fishing,” muttered Tom Reade, but Dick kept grimly silent.  He was watching every move of the Preston paddlers.

“Why, they’re leading us four lengths,” muttered Darrin, in an undertone.  But Prescott appeared unworried.

“We’ll try to brace our speed, by and by,” Dick answered.

“And so will the other fellows,” Tom surmised.  “They’re not going at anything like their pace as yet.”

For a quarter of a mile the canoes held the same relative position.

“Now, liven up,” Dick called softly.  “One, two, three, four!  One, two, three, four!”