That was enough. He set out on what the boys call a dead run, though
he hardly knew in what direction to look for refuge. But through the
trees at the west side of the road he caught sight of something that
put new hope into his heart. It was a boat, floating within three feet
of shore. In it sat a boy of about Harry's own age. It was Willie
Foster.

There was no time for ceremony, Harry sprang into the boat, and,
seizing an idle oar, pushed out into the river.

The owner of the boat, who had been thoughtfully gazing into the
water, looked up in surprise.

"Well, that's cool!" he ejaculated.

"I beg your pardon," said Harry, still plying the oar; "I couldn't
help it; Mr. Fox is after me."

John Fox, by this time, stood on the river bank shaking his fist, with
a discomfited expression, at his intended victim.

"Come back here!" he shouted.

"Thank you, I would rather not," answered Harry, still increasing the
distance between himself and his guardian.

"You Willie Foster, row the boat back!" bawled John Fox,

"Is your name Willie Foster?" asked Harry, turning to his companion,
who was looking, with a puzzled expression, from one to the other.