The referee himself now twisted the screw-eye out of its bed in the canoe frame.  Then he gathered up the wet cord and blanket and hurled the whole mass shoreward.

“I’d pay twenty-five dollars out of my own pocket,” the race official declared hotly, “for proof against the scoundrel who tried to spoil clean sport in this manner!”

Nearly all of the crowd of spectators had now surged down close to the float.

“I think we could make a pretty good guess at who is behind this contemptible business,” snarled Danny Grin, his face, for once, darkened by a threatening frown.

“Who did it?” challenged Referee Tyndall.  Dalzell opened his mouth, but Prescott broke in sharply with the command: 

“Be silent, Dan!  Don’t mention a name when you haven’t proof.”

“Can it possibly be anyone from Preston?” asked Hartwell anxiously.  “If it is, I beg you, Dalzell, to let me have the name—–­privately, if need be.  I’d spend the summer running down this thing.”

“I know whom Dalzell has in mind, Hartwell,” Dick rejoined.  “It’s no one from within a good many miles of Preston, either.  But we have no right to make accusation without an iota of proof.”

“Then you decline to allow the name to be furnished?” blurted the referee.

“I refuse, sir, for the same reason that you would,” Dick answered coolly.  “Only a coward, a knave or a fool will accuse another person without some reasonable proof to offer.  No great harm has been done, anyway.  The drag was found in time.”

“Get your canoe out, Hartwell,” ordered Mr. Tyndall.  “This time, when we launch them, we’ll make sure that both craft are in good order.”

When the “Pathfinder” was hauled up on the float she was found to be free from any evidences of trickery.

“Now, launch, and we’ll watch each canoe until it puts off,” announced Mr. Tyndall.  “Captain Prescott, will ten minutes be enough for you before the sounding of the first gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d rather you gave Gridley plenty of time, sir,” urged Bob Hartwell.  “If we can’t win from Gridley High School fairly, we don’t want to win at all.”

“First gun, then, at three-twenty-eight,” called Mr. Tyndall.  “Second gun at three-thirty.”

Slowly the “Pathfinder” followed the “Scalp-hunter” out into midlake.

“How does your craft go now, Gridley?” hailed the big chief from Preston.

“She goes like a canoe now,” Dick called back joyously.

Then he set his chums to easy paddling.  All six of Dick & Co. felt a thrill of joy at realizing the difference in the canoe’s behavior.

“We’ll win, all right,” predicted Prescott joyously.

“If we don’t, we’ll make motions that look like putting up a hard fight, anyway,” Tom answered him.

“I wish I had my foot on the neck of the cur that rigged the drag!” muttered Darrin vindictively.