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162 spot to be set down and bade their new friend good-by.

“Mind you look me up in the fall,” he reiterated. “I want to introduce you to some of the fellows I know; you’ll like them. Good-by and good luck. Hope you find your boat.”

He was off again in a cloud of dust and the three turned and plunged into the woods. Their judgment was not in error, for after a minute or so they came out on the shore of the cove. Twenty yards away lay the Slow Poke.

“Thank goodness!” said Roy, devoutly. “I thought—”

But he didn’t tell what he thought. Instead, he stopped suddenly in his tracks, and Chub and Dick stopped with him.

Sitting on the rail of the Slow Poke, his gun across his knees, was Farmer Ewing.