“We are not going to bet; that would be contrary to the constitution.”

“Would it?  I didn’t hear nothing about betting.”

“Article second says that one of the objects of the association shall be the acquiring of good habits in general; and I am sure betting is a very bad habit.”

“Well, I s’pose it is.”

“But several gentlemen of Rippleton have subscribed fifty dollars as a prize to the winner of the race,” added Frank; “just as they give medals in school, you know.”

“Well, of course you will win.”

“I don’t know.”

“You are used to your boat, and them fellers ain’t.”

“We can’t tell yet; perhaps the Butterfly will prove to be a faster boat than the Zephyr, and some of Tony’s members are a good deal larger and stouter than ours.  I think the chances are about equal.”

“I think likely.  What are you going to do with the money if you win?”

“I don’t know; we haven’t thought of that yet,” replied Frank, not particularly pleased with the question.

“Divide it among the fellers, I s’pose.”

“I think not; we had better apply it to some useful purpose,—­that is, if we win it,—­such as enlarging our library, buying some philosophical instruments—­”

“What’s them?”

“An air pump, and other apparatus of the kind.”

Tim did not comprehend the nature of the mystical implements any better than before; but as his mind was fixed upon something else, he did not demand further explanation.

“Fifty dollars,” said he; “how much will that be apiece.  Thirteen into fifty; can any of you fellers cipher that up in your heads?”

“Three and eleven thirteenths dollars each,” said William Bright, who pulled the next oar forward of Tim.  “Three dollars and eighty-five cents—­isn’t it?”

“Eighty-four and a fraction,” replied Fred, with schoolboy accuracy.

“A feller could have a good time on that, I’ll bet,” ejaculated Tim.

“And many a poor man would like it to buy bread for his family,” added Frank.  “But there is the Butterfly!”

Tim Bunker dropped his oar at this announcement, and was on the point of rising to get a better view of the Zephyr’s rival, when the handle of William Bright’s oar gave him a smart rap in the back.

“Mind out!” said Tim.  “Don’t you know any better than to hit a feller in that way?”

“Cease—­rowing!” called Frank, as he saw Tim’s first involuntarily double up, and his eye flash with anger.

“It was your fault, Tim, and you must not blame him,” added the coxswain, mildly, but firmly.

“My fault!” and Tim added an expression which I cannot put upon my page.

“Such language as that is contrary to the constitution,” continued Frank.  “You stopped rowing without orders.”

“What if I did!”

“You should not have done so.  No member can do, or cease to do, without orders; that’s our discipline.”