"Maybe he's going after more ducks. Wish to goodness he'd help with these
potatoes so I could get off, too."

Then his eyes roamed out over the water until they rested upon a white
sail away in the distance, bearing steadily down-stream. He watched it
carelessly for some time, but noticing the manner in which it drooped
under an occasional squall his interest became aroused.

"There's too much canvas, that's sure!" he ejaculated. "Some idiot, I
s'pose, who doesn't know 'bout these squalls. Guess he'll learn soon if he
isn't careful. Now the _Scud_, she's all right. I'd risk her any
time--My--!" and he almost held his breath as the white sail, much nearer
now, swooped to the water like the wing of a gigantic bird. The boat
righted herself, however, and sped gracefully forward. Again and again she
dipped and careened under each successive squall, winning the lad's
unstinted admiration. But even as he looked and wondered, a furious gust
caught the white sail as it listed heavily, and drove it with one sweep to
the water, overturning the boat as it did so. With a cry of fear the boy
dropped his hoe, stared for an instant at the overturned craft, and then
sped across the potato field sloping to the shore. He did not wait to go
by the path, which led straight up to a little cabin in the valley, but,
making a short cut to the left, leaped into a tangled thicket beyond. He
crashed his way through the branches and underbrush, not heeding the
numerous scratches upon face and hands.

He reached the _Scud_, tore, rather than untied the painter from an
old oak root, and sent the boat reeling backwards from its moorings. The
sail flapped wildly in the breeze, which was now growing stronger, and the
craft began to drift. Catching up the centre-board, lying near, the boy
drove it down into its narrow groove with a resounding thud. Seizing the