They both began to be sick after the collation.  Rick, with his usual pertinacity, wanted to “stick it out,” but his feelings overcame him, and he adjourned.  He and Tony had eaten too much green-tinted candy.  The participants in the raft-race were preparing for the contest, Charlie having already boarded his craft and pushed off into position, when a cry from Pip arrested the attention of all and made them think of something besides rafting.

“Down-townieth!” he shrieked, and pointed up the railroad embankment.  There stood a stout boy whom Charlie recognized immediately as one of the evil force that raided on the club the day of the grand march!  It was Tim Tyler, one of the hardest boys in Seamont, aged fifteen.  Back of him was a smaller boy, but a competitor in vice, Bobby Landers.  How many others might soon show themselves, no one could say, but the down-townies were clannish and loved to turn out in crowds, and to the club the probability appeared to be, that others would speedily rise up and charge along the railroad track.  Sid Waters, who had urged freemen to stand for their rights, was now turning on his heel.  He headed for a fence that separated the railroad lot from the woods.  It was evident that the first club race would be, not on the water, but the land, and that Sid Waters’s legs would take an unexpected but active part in it.  Other legs followed his, and this race of freemen for their rights became a general one.  At first, it was not positively certain who would reach the fence first and so beat in the race, but Sid’s alacrity in starting was so great that he gained the prize, or would have taken it, had any been offered.  The others though made very good time, and showed what freemen could do when hard pushed by their oppressors.  Charlie, alas! was too far from shore to share in their good fortune, and, besides, Tim Tyler was on hand to object to any such movement.

“Don’t be in too much of a hurry to leave,” he said provokingly to Charlie, and seizing a pole left by one of the retreating club, pushed off the raft that Charlie had shoved near the shore.

“Leave me alone,” growled Charlie.

“I have, haven’t I?  I don’t see how any one could be much more aloner than you are off there.”

Charlie looked like a jar of pickles, a keg of gunpowder, and a small thunder-cloud combined.  He was so angry that he could now say nothing.  When Tim had repeatedly pushed Charlie’s vessel back from the shore, Charlie as obstinately pushing toward it again, Tim cried out, “Say, I will make you an offer.  Do you see that?”

He pulled out of his pocket a dirty bottle and held it up.

“There, some of the best beer made anywhere is in that.  If you will take a swaller, I’ll let you come ashore.”

Charlie could hardly contain himself now.  He was scarcely able to sputter out this defiance, “When you catch me tasting that stuff, you’ll know it!”

“O jest hear him, Bob!” said Tim, mockingly.  “I s’pose this young sailor, who don’t know enough about sailin’ to get his craft ashore, has jined a temperance society.”