“Why, yes, thank you,” said Irving.

So Scarborough called, “Wait a moment, fellows,” and paddling ashore,
took on his passenger. Then he sped out to the middle of the bay; the
two other canoes were separated by about fifty feet.

“Charge!” cried Scarborough, and Morrill and Carroll began paddling
towards each other, while in the bows Collingwood and Westby rose to
their feet and held their spears in front of them. They advanced
cautiously and then swung apart, evading the collision—each trying to
tempt the other to stab and overreach.

“Oh, you’re both scared!” jeered Baldersnaith from the shore.

The canoes swung about and made for each other again; and this time
passed within striking distance. Westby’s aim missed, his sponge-tipped
lance slid past Collingwood’s shoulder, and the next instant
Collingwood’s sponge—well weighted with water—smote Westby full in the
chest and hove him overboard. For one moment Carroll struggled to keep
the canoe right side up, but in vain; it tipped and filled, and with a
shout he plunged in head foremost after his comrade.

They came up and began to push their canoe ashore; the two other canoes
drew alongside and assisted, Scarborough and Morrill paddling, while
Irving and Collingwood laid hold of the thwarts.

“That’s all right; I’ll get you this time,” spluttered Westby. “We’re
going to use strategy now.”