Scarborough, stripped like Westby and Carroll and Morrill and
Collingwood, was out on the pond, paddling round in a canoe. He was
crouched on one knee in the middle, and the canoe careened over with his
weight, so that the gunwale was only an inch or two above the surface.
He was evidently an expert paddler, swinging the craft round, this way
and that, without ever taking the paddle out of the water.

Two other canoes were hauled up near the spring-board; Carroll was
bending over one of them.

“Bring me my lethal weapon, Carrie,” Westby commanded. “I want to show
Mr. Upton.—Is the button on tight?”

Carroll produced from the canoe a long pole with an enormous sponge
fastened to one end; he pulled at the sponge and announced, “Yes, the
button’s on tight,” and passed the pole over to Westby.

Westby made one or two experimental lunges with it and remarked
musingly, “When I catch him square above the bread line with this—!”

“Come on, then!” said Collingwood. “Come here, Ned!”

Morrill swam ashore and pushed off in one of the canoes with
Collingwood—taking the stern seat and the paddle. Collingwood knelt in
the bow, with his spear laid across the gun-wales in front of him. In
like manner Westby and Carroll took to the water.

“This is the best two bouts out of three,” called Scarborough, as he
circled round. “Don’t you want to come aboard, Mr. Upton, and help
judge?”