renewed attention to their work. Still, all of them had the same
uneasy impression that there "was a screw loose somewhere."

"It's just as though we had a drag holding us back," Dick muttered
disappointedly.

"Perhaps it's only because we're not quite warmed up yet," Tom
hinted.

"No; it isn't that," Prescott responded. "I wish I knew just
what does ail us. Take the second speed, fellows, and each of
you watch his dip and recovery. Remember, it's the disciplined
paddling that wins a canoe race."

At the next speed they went forward a little faster, to be sure.
Yet there was a decided lack of speed or a pull-back somewhere.

"Don't lose your nerve, Gridley!" floated Hartwell's voice over
the water as the Preston canoe shot by at a wind-jamming speed.

"Want a tow, Gridley?" hailed someone from shore.

"Next speed, fellows! Hit it up hard," called Dick Prescott.
Perspiration from extreme nervousness broke out on his forehead.

Strive as he would, the crew captain of the Gridleys could not
shake off the gloomy depression that assailed him. Something
was wrong---radically wrong! The "Scalp-hunter" was not showing
a winning gait!