a lurking smile on his face, and under
his arm a bundle that resembled a red flannel seine wrapped tightly on
its sticks.

"Hullo, Randy, what have you there?" queried Nugget.

"What is it?" exclaimed Clay, in a tone that implied some doubt as to
whether he referred to Randy or the object under his arm.

But Randy was not disposed to be communicative just then.

"You'll know what it is in good time," he replied, and then turning to
Ned he asked: "Can I have one of the tent poles?"

"What do you want with it?" demanded Ned. "Has it anything to do with
that piece of tomfoolery?"

"Yes, it has," replied Randy aggressively. "That piece of tomfoolery,
as you call it, is a sail. I'll make you fellows open your eyes after a
while."

"I don't doubt it," exclaimed Ned laughingly, "There will be lots of
sport in watching you try to sail on a stream like this. And what a
sail, too! Why, it's made out of a red blanket! What put the notion into
your head, Randy?"

"Oh, you can make all the fun of it, you please," replied Randy; "you'll
all wish you had one like it after a while. Just look at that breeze
blowing straight down the creek. In an hour from now it will be twice as
strong, and then I'll leave you fellows so far behind that you can't
overtake me in a week."

"It doesn't occur to him that the creek changes its course about every
half mile," reflected Ned as he resumed his work. "If he tries the thing
on he'll come to grief."

Randy was troubled by no such misgivings. He appropriated one of the
jointed tent poles and lashed it on the fore deck of his canoe beside
the queer looking sail. The Water Sprite, it may be said, had been built
with a view to sailing, and it contained a mast hole and block just
forward of the cockpit.

Not until the Jolly Rovers had been afloat an hour or two did Randy's
opportunity come, for during that time the channel was one succession of
short, jerky curves that encountered the wind every which way. But his
patience was finally rewarded by a clear half mile stretch of water,
licked into tiny undulations by a crisp down breeze.

Randy discreetly grounded the canoe on a little grass bar in mid-channel,
and proceeded to rig up. His sail was merely a light weight blanket with
each of its narrow ends sewed to a trimmed sapling--just like a banner,
in fact. He attached this to his improvised mast, fastened each end
securely, and drove the latter into the mast hole.

The Water Sprite was