AN EARLY MORNING PRACTICE
Poke possessed the ability to awake in the morning at approximately
whatever hour he had decided upon the night before, a most convenient
gift that saved the price of an alarm clock. On Saturday Poke made use
of this ability and was out of bed long before any one else in the
house was stirring and out of the house without having awakened even
Gil. It was fortunate that he had put a sweater on under his jacket,
for the morning was cloudy and chill as he set off along the road
toward the school and the river. But early as he was, Sammy was ahead
of him at the boat-house. The latter was just unlocking when Poke
arrived, and he displayed an unflattering surprise at his appearance.
“Likely you been up all night,” he said, struggling with a yawn as he
ushered Poke into the house.
“Had your breakfast, Sammy?” Poke asked.
“O’ course I have,” replied the boatman indignantly. “Most time for
dinner it is now.”
“Wish I had,” sighed Poke. “What’s the smallest and lightest canoe
you’ve got, Sammy?”
“I dunno. There’s all kinds here. Take your pick o’ ’em.”
“No, you show me, Sammy. I don’t know much about the things.”
Sammy walked along the racks, chin in hand, mumbling. Finally,
“Here be it,” he announced, placing his hand on a green canvas canoe.
“Light and short, sir, and paddles itself.”
“All right. Put her over, Sammy.”
“Be you goin’ out now?” asked the boatman in surprise.
“Of course. A little exercise before breakfast, you know. I’m troubled
with dyspepsia. Doctor’s orders, Sammy.”
“You be over young to have dyspepsy,” said Sammy, shaking his head
disapprovingly. “Too many sweets, likely. What kind o’ paddle, now;
double or single?”
“Single, please. That’s the ticket. See you later, Sammy.” And Poke
dipped his blade and leisurely headed down-stream. If his purpose was
to practise for the race he gave but small indication of the fact, for
he only put his paddle in the water when the slow current threatened
to send him toward the banks. Presently he had passed under the bridge
at Birch Island and was out of sight. Sammy, who had watched from the
float, turned and ambled back to the work-shop, shaking his head.
“It’s puttin’ a lot o’ rich victuals in their stummicks as does it,”
he muttered as he set about lighting the stove. “Dyspepsy be the curse
o’ the age. That,” he added as he felt a twinge in his knee, “that an
rhumatics.” He dropped some fresh sheet-glue in the glue pot, set it
over the fire and glanced out the window. “’Twill be soon clearin’,” he
murmured. “Likely I’d best finish paintin’ that canoe so ’twill dry.”
It was about half an hour later that he heard a noise at the float and
saw Poke lifting his canoe out of the water. Poke had acquired very red
cheeks and a hearty appetite, but whether he had acquired more skill at
paddling remained to be seen.
“You be soon back,” observed Sammy, putting his head out the shop
door. “Likely you be thinkin’ some o’ breakfast by now.”
“I’m thinking of nothing else, Sammy,” replied Poke heartily. “And,
Sammy, I want you to do me a favor.”
The boatman immediately looked dubious. He didn’t believe overmuch in
doing favors. But Poke’s next action cleared his face. Poke put his
hand in his trousers pocket and brought out a bright quarter.
“I’m going to have a race with a fellow at eleven o’clock,” he went on,
“and I want this same canoe. See that I get it, will you? And here’s
something for your trouble.”
“That be easy,” replied Sammy, “and I’ll not be taken siller for’t.”
But he did nevertheless, slipping the quarter into the pocket of his
overalls even as he spoke. “Leave it to me, sir, an’ ’twill be here
when you come.” He lifted the green canvas canoe and placed it athwart
a couple of horses in the shop. “Likely,” he added, “it be in need o’
repairin’.”
Poke just barely got into chapel in time. Afterwards Gil and Jim and
Jeffrey were curious to know where he had been.
“I’ve been on the river,” replied Poke. “I thought it would be a good
idea to have a sort of dress rehearsal, you see.”
Gil viewed him suspiciously. Finally, “Look here, Poke,” he said, “is
this on the level, this race?”
“No, on the river,” replied Poke flippantly, “and you know they’re
never quite level.”
“Do you mean,” asked Jeffrey, “that you went down at six o’clock and
paddled over the course?”
“Something like that. But it was before six, I think. Say, you chaps,
for the love of Mike, walk up, will you? I’m just about starved to
death! I came mighty near nibbling the varnish off the settee in
chapel. This before-breakfast exercise is great stuff, I tell you. You
ought to try it, Jeff. You never eat anything to speak of. Get into
your little canoe some morning and paddle a couple of miles and just
see how it tones you up. It’s marvelous! Anybody got any chocolate
about their person? Or a slab of chewing gum? Or any other little thing
that will keep life in my starving body?”
But nobody had. Jim offered a cough-drop from the corner of his
waistcoat pocket, but after looking it over Poke refused it indignantly.
“I can get all the dirt I want without having to take paregoric with
it,” he said.
Gil had gotten it into his head that there was something “fishy,” as he
put it, about the race, and tried his best to get Poke to confess to
some scheme of villainy. But Poke only looked hurt and injured and said
he was sorry that a fellow he had always liked and respected should
entertain such doubts as to his integrity. However, as he said most of
it with his mouth filled with breakfast, the full effect was lost.
But I am certain that the reader is quite as interested in the race
and as anxious to witness it as was the school in general; although I
trust he does not share Gil’s miserable suspicions; and so I will hurry
on to the appointed moment. Long before eleven o’clock practically
every canoe, skiff and tub in commission was on the water and the
boat-house was emptier than it had ever been since spring. Sammy was
dazed and indignant. Some few fellows who did not trust themselves
to manage an oar or paddle elected to see the contest from the bank,
and the more energetic of these got away early and walked down to the
starting-point. Most, however, were satisfied to see the finish of the
race from the stone bridge over Birch Island or from the float itself.
Now for a thorough understanding of this terrific contest it is
incumbent on the reader to know a little about the course of the river.
What Poke called the old bridge was a wooden structure which crossed
the river about half a mile below the school as the crow flies and
about a mile as the river runs. For the river turns thrice in that
distance, curving once to the north-west in a wide sweep and then
again to the south-east and finally a third time toward the west.
It describes a giant S, with the upper loop, viewed from the school
float, round and large and the lower loop smaller and flattened.
After finishing the second loop the river meanders south-westerly in
a generally straight direction. Imagine, then, the start of the race
to be at a point about at the middle of the top curve of the S and
the finish at a point just beyond the final end of the letter. What,
then, would have been scarcely more than a mile could one have walked
the distance in a straight line, was fully twice the distance by boat.
And a mile against the current is no light feat for one whose canoeing
experience has stretched over such a small space of time as a week.
Both contestants were on hand early at the boat-house. At twenty
minutes to eleven Poke stepped majestically into the Mi-Ka-Noo
and, in company with Gil, Jim, Jeffrey and Hope, put off for the
starting-point. Behind the Mi-Ka-Noo bobbed the little green canoe
that Poke had chosen in the morning. The Mi-Ka-Noo was pretty well
loaded but stood the ordeal beautifully. Poke was calm and heroic, Gil
suspicious, Jim frankly amused, Jeffrey anxious and Hope so excited
that she could scarcely sit still. She did, however, because Jim nipped
every wriggle in the bud, so to speak. Accompanying the Mi-Ka-Noo,
for all the world as though it was the Royal Barge of an Eastern
Potentate――the expression is Poke’s, not mine――went a flotilla of
canoes and boats filled with laughing boys in a very holiday mood. Poke
was the recipient of much advice and the butt of many jokes, but Poke
this morning was absolutely impressive. I have said that he was calm,
but that scarcely expresses the quiet, almost haughty, determination
of his countenance. Hope was positively fascinated by him and
deliberately seated herself with her face toward the stern, so that she
could feast her eyes on the noble hero.
Brandon Gary had preceded them down the river, paddling in the blue
canoe he had selected for the race. This, explained Poke, was a
mistake. It was unwise to exert one’s self before the contest. He
believed in saving his strength. Gil, who was doing his best at the
bow, to keep the Mi-Ka-Noo from colliding with the other boats, grunted
ironically. The starting-place looked like the English Thames on a
regatta day. The sun had come out gloriously and the variously colored
canoes and cedar boats glistened in the sunlight. Joe Cosgrove, the
baseball captain, had been chosen official, combining the duties of
referee, judge, timer and starter. Joe had provided himself with a
small pistol and was determined to do his part in ship-shape fashion.
He was also determined to waste no time, having an engagement to
play golf at a quarter past eleven with Mr. Arroway, the English
instructor. So he watched impatiently while Poke stepped carefully into
his green canoe――Poke still held canoes in deep respect and boarded
them circumspectly――with all the impressiveness possible under the
circumstances.
“Paddle over here, Poke, and get in place,” he called.
Poke, without replying, took up his paddle and looked it all over, much
as a batsman examines a favorite bat or a billiard player his cue, much
to the amusement of the spectators.
“It’s all right,” called Gil. “It isn’t loaded, old man.”
Poke thereupon carefully placed the tip of the paddle in the water,
moved it experimentally, withdrew it and once more scrutinized it
carefully. Cosgrove sputtered.
“For goodness’ sake, Poke, get a move on, can’t you?”
Poke appeared to have heard him for the first time and glanced across
inquiringly. “Are you waiting for me?” he asked surprisedly.
“Get in line with Gary there,” directed Joe. “Get those bows even. Are
you ready?”
Poke agreed that he was, and so did Gary.
_Bang!_
That was Joe’s pistol. Gary dug his paddle and the blue canoe darted
ahead. Poke dug his paddle and the green canoe followed, but more
slowly. Poke, agreed the crowd, was going to let Gary set the pace.
You couldn’t fool old Poke! You’d have to get up pretty early in the
morning to get ahead of him! The flotilla followed, cheering and
laughing and shouting advice to the contestants.
“Go it, Bull! You’re doing fine!”
“Keep after him, Poke! Wear him out! That’s the stuff!”
“’Rah for Endicott!”
“’Rah for Gary!”
The great race had begun!