Joe Warren some moments later, "I guess the colonel is
in love, after all. Ten cents' worth of peanuts! My, he's got it bad.
Let's go tell Henry Burns."

A day or two following, toward the end of a pleasant afternoon, Tim
Reardon and his friend, Allan Harding, sat by the shore of Mill stream
watching a small fleet of canoes engaged in active manoeuvring. It was
at a point on the stream opposite the scene of the execution of the
great Indian chief, where the small cabin stood. Back from this a few
rods was an old barn, of which the boys of Benton rented a small section
for the storage of canoes and paddles.

There were four canoes now upon the stream, each containing two
occupants. The eight canoeists were stripped for the work, showing a
gorgeous, if somewhat worn, array of sleeveless jerseys. The boys were
bronzed and healthy looking. Back and forth they darted across the
stream from shore to shore; or again, tried short spurts up and down
stream.

"What are they going to do, Tim?" inquired his companion.

"Don't you know?" queried Tim, by way of reply. "Say, it's going to be
the dandiest race ever. Start to-morrow morning right after breakfast
from in front of the cabin, and go straight up stream all day long. Only
when Jack blows the horn at noon everybody's got to stop and go ashore
and eat something. Then they start again when Jack blows for 'em to. And
paddle like everything all the afternoon till six o'clock. Then stop
again when Jack blows, and leave every canoe just where it is.

"Then they get together and pitch tents and camp all night, and race
back next day. And everybody has got to come up to where the first canoe
is before they turn back. Henry Burns, he got it up. I'll bet he and
Jack win the race, too."

"What'll you bet?" demanded Allan Harding, who had been eying the
canoeists sharply.

"Thousand dollars," replied Tim, promptly, shoving his grimy hands into
pockets that contained several marbles, a broken-bladed knife and other
valuables.

"Well," replied Allan Harding, cautiously, "mebbe you're right, but I
guess those fellows in the green canoe stand a good chance. Look how
strong they are. Say, who are they, anyway?"

"Hm! Jack Harvey's stronger'n any of them," asserted Jim loyally, eying
his stalwart friend, as a canoe passed containing Harvey and Henry
Burns. "Those other chaps are Jim and John Ellison. They live up on the
farm above here. That's what makes 'em strong. But you know Ja