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 though they were behaving a lot better than they had been. "Do you think we'd better go back, Bob?" asked Bess.

Bob shook his head. "This sort of thing just makes me want to win," he said. "I hate to be worsted!"

So we kept on, and the storm kept right along with us, and the road got to be something dreadful. We weren't much wet; for the storm had not gotten in front of us; but the horses were perfectly soused.

We were between two and three miles above the island, when Bess pricked up her ears again. She has awfully quick hearing. "What was that?" she said.

"Sounded like a fog-horn," said Uncle Rob.

"It wasn't," said Bess, with conviction. "Look out."

Uncle Rob leaned out and looked through the wet trees along the bank, the moist twigs slapping his face; then he turned back. "That, Bessie, my dear, was the whistle of a steam-boat,—a fine large working her way up the river. On board, she has a picnic party—a wet but happy picnic party, which will eat its