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Updated: May 9, 2025
Centerville was a thriving town situated almost midway down the east shore of Camalot Lake, and very nearly opposite Newtonport on the opposite bank; in consequence, there was more or less rivalry between the two places, which condition extended from the shopkeepers and banks to the sports of the boys of the bustling miniature cities.
Frank needed only one glance to tell him the story. Will was already beginning to feel the dreadful nausea of seasickness. The boys were accustomed to spending much time on the water, in their canoes, but little Lake Camalot, at home, and the big Mexican Gulf, were two entirely separate affairs.
I know you've got several books on the subject since your father half promised to put a little craft on Lake Camalot next season," remarked Jerry. "Well," laughed Frank, fairly caught, "between the lot of us it'll be strange if we don't know how to handle that dandy boat of Cousin Archie's the Jessamine he calls her." "Three cheers for the Jessamine, then!" said Bluff.
Will Milton and Jerry Wallington sat in the double canoe, that with flapping sails pointed its stem into the wind; while their chum, Richard Masters, known among all his schoolmates as Bluff, manipulated the dainty fifteen-foot cedar craft in which he had been speeding over the surface of Camalot Lake.
"Yes, just when we ought to make a grand burst of speed, too," said Jerry. "You forget that the sun is low, and evening close at hand," replied Frank, "Tell me about that, and what it has to do with us. I'm a greeny when it comes to running a motor-boat." "Oh, the boat has little to do with it; but please remember that the Gulf of Mexico is a larger affair than Camalot Lake.
Then past Frank's home, where his father waved his hat as he stood in the doorway, warned of the coming of the squad by the rampant popping of the motor-cycles; and after that the open country, where the northbound road ran alongside the calm waters of Lake Camalot, now glistening in the frosty air of an October morning.
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