The red canoe skilfully paddled by the Edgemere champion, Willie Dawdle, was some ahead and gaining rapidly and the girls from Edgemere High School could not contain themselves for joy.  Among the Alligator Patrol, too, the excitement ran high and shout upon shout for Bridgeboro arose as Wingate Chase spurted to get the inner turn about the island.  He gained fast now and as the distance between the two canoes shortened the air was rent with deafening yells for Bridgeboro.

The two contestants were abreast when suddenly amid the uproar could be heard a voice, a voice singularly matter-of-fact and sensible, uttering words which if not of excitement seemed at least pertinent to the occasion, “How are they going to go around that blamed thing when it’s sailing up the river?”

Alas, it was too true.  The most unusual development which could possibly complicate an athletic event had occurred; the turning point had deserted the race and was sailing majestically up the river.  It had already sailed a hundred feet or so before the watchers on the mainland discovered the fact.

As for the striving contestants they were too intent upon the race to perceive the strange turn of affairs until the wild mirth upon the “mainland” apprised them of it.  They must have looked funny enough from the shore frantically pursuing the fugitive turning post, and the unhallowed joy of the spectators was only increased by Pee-wee’s heroic efforts in the emergency as with a long pole he strove to stay the progress of the recreant island.  Failing in these herculean efforts, he still tried to save the day by shouting to the racers.

“Keep up! Keep up!” he yelled.  “You can go around it.  You’re going faster than the island is. Don’t give up!  It makes it all the more exciting.  It’s like—­like—­like—­kind of—­like running up an escalator!  Don’t stop!  Keep it up, it’s an escalator race!”

It certainly made it “all the more exciting.”  As for the inhabitants of the island, they were carried away in more than one sense.  Townsend lay flat upon the ground in a spasm of silent laughter.  Several others of the new Alligator Patrol sat on the edge of the stern and rock-bound coast, their legs dangling in the water, and seemed in danger of falling in, so gymnastic was their merriment.  As for the occupants or the grandstand, they probably thought (if they were able to think at all) that ten cents was a small price to pay for such an exciting race.

Only one occupant of the fleeing island was up and about and fully conscious.  With his companions lying flat or doubled up and screaming so that the woods along shore echoed with their insane mirth, our hero stood amid the chaos, shouting to the racers at the top of his voice.  They were almost abreast of him now, and laughing themselves, for the race had become a farce.

“Come on!  Keep it up!” he shouted.  “You can go around it while it’s sailing just as good as if it were standing still!  The race kind of stretches out like an elastic—­it’s an extensible race.  Keep it up!  Keep it up!”