The paddles flew, their wet blades gleaming in the air, only to disappear under the water again.

Each recovery was swift, prompt rhythmic! But Hartwell's crew was also showing the stuff of which it was made.
"Stop paddling---back water!" shouted Hartwell finally.
The "Pathfinder" lay on the water, motionless, only two yards from the shore on which stood the blasted pines.
At that same instant the Gridley High School "Scalp-hunter" was a trifle more than seven lengths astern.
"That was good and warming," smiled Big Chief Dick, as the second canoe came up.
"Yah, yah, yah!" retorted the Preston High School boys, betraying their delight in derisive grins.
"Where is that wonderful, all-conquering way you were telling us about ?" chaffed Hartwell.
"You'll find out when we race," smiled Prescott calmly.
"When we race ?" repeated Preston's big chief.

"Didn't we race just now?
Or do you consider that it wasn't a race just because you weren't in it ?" "It wasn't a race," Dick answered.

"Merely a brush." "Brush ?" repeated Hartwell indignantly.

"Didn't we challenge you fellows, and didn't you accept?
Also, didn't you lose ?" "We lost the brush," Dick admitted.
"You lost the race to us," Hartwell declared stoutly.