The canoe came on Wednesday. Of course by this time, as Gil had predicted, its name had been shortened to “Mike,” which was a very plebeian title for such a handsome craft. It was quite the best looking canoe in the school boat-house, although Brandon Gary and “Punk” Gibbs owned between them a craft that, when new, had been a marvel of white and gold. Now it was pretty well scratched and battered, and there were palpable patches showing along the bottom. Jeffrey was properly proud of his new possession, and spent most of Wednesday afternoon in or about it. It paddled beautifully, he decided, sat well on the water and was altogether a treasure. He paddled far down the river in the Mi-Ka-Noo and worked back in the golden glory of an autumn sunset, with the afterglow tingeing the surface of the little stream with coppery lights and the blade of his paddle trickling golden drops as it[236] hung between strokes above the placid surface. In the boat-house he found an empty rack and saw the canoe carefully laid away on it, holding his breath for fear the boatman might mar the glistening varnish of its sides. The next forenoon he and Poke hurried down to the boat-house between recitations. Sammy, the boatman, left his bench in the repair shop and lifted the Mi-Ka-Noo into the water for them. Jeffrey got into the stern and Poke settled himself in the bow and they started up-river. Poke was eager now to learn how to paddle and so there was a ten-minute lesson. By the time they had dropped Biscuit Island from sight he was doing very well, although he had not yet mastered the twist of the paddle at the end of the stroke. Jeffrey, however, kept the canoe in its course and Poke persevered in his efforts to “get the hang of it,” as he said. Half a mile up-stream Jeffrey called a halt and they pulled the canoe in under the branches of the trees and rested awhile, Poke ascertaining, by a glance at his watch, that they still had a full half-hour before them.
“It’s funny how it tires your shoulders,” said Poke, as he dropped his watch back. “I believe I can get onto it all right, though.”
[237]
“Of course you can,” Jeffrey responded. “There’s no trick to it. It’s just a hard, steady drive and then a half-turn of the blade before you take it out.”
“I know, but it’s that half-turn that puzzles me. I get it sometimes, and then the next time I almost lose my paddle.”
“Want to try the stern going back?”
But Poke shook his head. “I don’t think I’d better yet. I might put Mike onto the bank or into a snag. Here’s some one coming up. Looks like Bull Gary. Not only looks, but is. And Gibbs with him.”
They watched the white canoe approach, drawing the bow of their own canoe further toward shore, for the stream was narrow here and Jeffrey wasn’t going to risk his paint. Gary was paddling in the stern and Punk Gibbs was in the bow. Gary recognized Poke when some distance away and waved his paddle to him. Poke waved back, and when the white craft was within speaking distance Poke called:
“Hello, Bull! Hello, Punk! That the same old mud-scow you used to have?”
Gary turned his canoe toward the opposite side, Gibbs seized a branch and they came to[238] a pause. Gary laid his paddle across his knees, said “Phew!” eloquently and grinned at Poke.
“Yes, same old mud-scow,” he said. “Where’d you get that thing, Poke? It looks like a fire-engine. Did they have any red paint left?”
“This,” replied Poke, “belongs to Latham. You know Latham, don’t you, Bull? Latham’s the chap who has the room you liked the looks of, Bull. Jeff, the other gentlemen is Mr. Gibbs. Punk is all right, but he’s terribly careless about the company he keeps. What do you think of this for some canoe, Punk?”
“She’s a peach,” replied Gibbs admiringly. “Where did you get her, Latham?”
“Sandford’s,” answered Jeffrey.
“How do you pronounce that name?” asked Gary, who had been frowning at it for a minute. Poke told him and the frown vanished. Gary chuckled. “Pretty good, eh, Punk? Mi-Ka-Noo! I thought it was some Indian gibberish.”
“Go pretty well?” asked Gibbs.
“Like a breeze,” replied Poke. “She paddles herself. Fastest thing on the river except the varsity shell!”
“I’ll bet you this old tub can run rings around her,” grunted Gary. “Even if she is[239] two years old and has forty-eleven patches on her!”
“Oh, that’s been a good canoe in its day,” answered Poke airily. “But they’re making ’em better now, Bull. Look at the lines on this old top. Pretty neat, what?”
“Too broad,” said Gary. “She’s built for comfort but not speed, Poke.”
“Speed! Why, this canoe has the Empire State Express spiked to the rails! Speed! Honestly, Bull, you pain me.”
Gary grinned. “We’ll race you back to the boat-house,” he offered. “If we don’t beat you by half a dozen lengths I—I’ll—”
“Apologize,” suggested Poke. “We accept your challenge, sir.”
“But, Poke,” said Jeffrey, “they’re bound to beat us.”
“Of course we are,” Gary laughed. “Latham’s got a lot more sense than you have, Poke.”
“He is thinking of the fact that I am a very poor canoedler,” said Poke. “This is only the second time I’ve ever tried it. But that doesn’t matter because, as I have previously remarked, Bull, this canoe paddles herself. Turn your old derelict around and get ready.”
[240]
“Don’t you want me to take the stern?” asked Gibbs. &............