Читать книгу Frank Merriwell, Jr., in Arizona; or, Clearing a Rival's Record онлайн

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“The course, fellows,” announced Bleeker, “is one that was marked out by the late-lamented Lenning, when he was king bee in the Gold Hill crowd. Look up the gulch, will you? See Apache Point, over there?”

Frank and Clancy followed Bleeker’s pointing finger with their eyes. A little more than a quarter of a mile away, the left-hand bank of the gulch rose into a sheer wall, some fifty feet high, with the water laving its base. The stream narrowed at the foot of Apache Point, so that there was room for no more than three canoes to pass it abreast of each other.

“Around the Point,” Bleeker went on, “the gulch banks widen out again, and this stretch of slack-water navigation widens with it. A quarter of a mile up the other side of the Point, on the left-hand bank, is a white flag. The course is around the bend, to the white flag and back again to the camp. We Gold Hillers know all about it, Merriwell, and if you and Clancy want to paddle over it before the race, we’ll wait for you.”

“Any snags in the course?” asked Frank. “Any obstacles we’ll have to look out for?”