“Of course; that is what I meant,” explained Laura, flushing slightly.

“I know.  You think that Dick Prescott is the only boy at Lake Pleasant,” teased Miss Sharp.

“Stop that!” begged Clara Marshall.  “Don’t talk nonsense.”

At one end of the float lay the “Pathfinder.”  At the other end lay the “Scalp-hunter,” as shining as a thorough overhauling and a coating of oil could make her.

Over the latter canoe the Gridley High School girls had posted themselves as a sort of guard of honor.

Not that there was any suspicion that either of the canoes would be tampered with.  High school and college sports are “clean.”  No underhanded tricks are resorted to by competitors for the sake of winning.

In the boathouse near by sat the members of both crews, mingling on the most friendly terms.  With them were some of the officials of the race.

Dotted along the water front of the hotel grounds were many little groups of waiting spectators in chairs, on campstools or sitting on the grass.

In the morning buoys had been set on the lake at each end of a measured course.  The course was to be a mile, around the upper buoy and returning to the starting line.  The usual rules of boat and canoe racing were to apply as to clear water, fouling and the like, as well as the right of way at the upper buoy in case the rival canoes were close together.

“It’s half-past two o’clock now,” announced the starter, glancing at his watch.

“At two-forty,” stated the referee, “I shall order both canoes into the water.  As soon after that as each crew captain chooses he may put his men aboard and take such warming-up work as he may wish.  At two-fifty-six the first gun will be fired, and both crews must come promptly to the judges’ boat for alignment.  At exactly three the second shot will be fired—–­the starting signal.  Has either captain any questions to ask?”

Neither captain had any questions.

“Let me know, time-keeper, when it is two-forty,” said the referee, going toward the door.  “Both captains will be on the alert to avoid delays.”

As the referee glanced out he saw that at least four hundred spectators were on hand.  Two stage loads of men, woman, boys and girls had already arrived from Preston.  Trentville also had sent a delegation.

“What’s all that yelling with ‘Gridley’ in it?” cried Dick, jumping up and moving toward the door.

He was followed by his chums.  They reached the float in time to see the automobile bus from Gridley coming down to the water front.  In it were some thirty people of all ages.

“Oh, you Prescott!” yelled one irrepressible young man, through a megaphone.  “Don’t you dare make fools of us this afternoon!  Gridley must win!”

“Don’t worry!” Dick shouted back, waving his hand.  “Gridley is going to win!”

“Yes, sirree!” called Bob Hartwell, laughingly.  “Preston High School guarantees Gridley to be a winner—–­for second place!”