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 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.”

“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 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 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.”

“Don’t you want me to take the stern?” asked Gibbs. “You paddled all the way up.”

“Pshaw, I’m not tired,” answered Gary. “Let the bow come around.”

“Right-O!” cried Poke as the two canoes lay side by side. “Give the word, Bull.”

“All right. Are you ready? ... Go!”

Off they went, all four paddles digging hard. Poke was apparently trying to lift the bow of the Mi-Ka-Noo out of the water in his wild efforts, and Jeffrey called to him to slow down.

“Longer strokes, Poke, and make them tell! That’s it!”

For a moment during that first excited spurt the two canoes were in danger of colliding, but Jeffrey managed to swing away and in that instant the white canoe gained a slight lead.

In some places the channel was scarcely wide enough to allow the two canoes to travel side by side, since there were many snags along the banks. And so when the white canoe took the lead Jeffrey was content to let it keep it until they had passed the next turn and the channel widened. But the Mi-Ka-Noo hung close to the stern of the other craft in spite of Gary’s strenuous paddling, and presently, when the boat-house came into sight ahead, Jeffrey passed the word and slowly the Mi-Ka-Noo crept up foot by foot until it was even with its competitor.

Poke was not yet a scientific paddler, but he had plenty of muscle, meant to beat Gary if such a thing were possible and so toiled like a hero in the bow. At the stern Jeffrey’s experience made up for the fact that he hadn’t the strength to put into the strokes that Gary had. But it was, I think, the Mi-Ka-Noo that won its own race, for the crimson canoe was undoubtedly faster than the white one. Some fifty yards from the boat-house float the Mi-Ka-Noo’s curving prow drew away from the rival craft. Then Jeffrey, crouching at the stern, was even with the center of the white canoe, and Gary, paddling madly and grunting with every stroke of his flashing blade, called on Gibbs for a spurt.

“Come on, Punk! Get into it! Make her go!”

Gibbs tried his best, but his strokes when they grew faster grew also weaker, and the crimson canoe gained steadily until there was open water between her stern and the white bow.

“Not too fast!” warned Jeffrey. “Make them hard, Poke!”

And Poke, who was getting excited by the prospect of victory, steadied down again. Then Gibbs “caught a crab” with his paddle, Gary lost his temper and called him names and the Mi-Ka-Noo shot past the float a good length and a half ahead!

Poke subsided over his paddle and fought for breath while Jeffrey, backing water and paddling, turned the canoe about and went back to the float.

“I guess this one’s a bit faster than yours, Gary,” said Jeffrey. “She sits out of the water more, I think.”

But strangely enough Gary had an affection for his battered craft and was up in arms at once.

“It wasn’t a test of the canoes,” he said indignantly. “This one is twice as fast as yours. If Punk hadn’t nearly lost his paddle we’d have shown you. Besides, I was tired. You fellows had been resting up there.”

Poke lifted his head, gave a gasp for breath, and said:

“You couldn’t have beat us if you’d just got out of bed, Bull.”

“Couldn’t I? I’ll row you again any time you like; if I can find some one to take the bow,” he added with a disgusted glare at Gibbs.

Gibbs grinned and winked at Poke. “What you want in the bow, Bull,” he said, “is a gasoline motor!”

“I tell you what I’ll do with you,” offered Poke quietly. “I’ll race you Saturday morning up-stream from the old bridge to the landing here. You take any canoe you like and I’ll do the same. It isn’t the canoe, Bull, it’s science that counts!”

“Science!” scoffed Bull. “Why, you couldn’t paddle that far to save your life!”

“Don’t let that worry you,” Poke replied soothingly. “Will you try it?”

“What would be the use? You say yourself that you’ve never paddled a canoe before.”

“I know, but I’m awfully quick to learn, Bull. I’m a clever little lad that way. What do you say, now? Try it? We’ll start at the old bridge and I’ll beat you to the boat-house here. If I don’t get here at least a length ahead of you I’ll black your shoes for you on the front steps of Mem!”

“I hope you lose,” said Gibbs vindictively. “Bull’s shoes need blacking most of the time.”

“All right,” said Gary. “I’ll race you. And if I don’t beat you I’ll—I’ll—”

“Careful now! Don’t say anything you’ll be sorry for!” laughed Poke.

“—I’ll black your shoes!”

“Done, old scout! It’s a bargain. You fellows are witnesses.”

“Saturday morning, you said. What time?”

“Oh, say eleven; or later, if you like,” replied Poke.

“Eleven’s all right for me. And I don’t have to use this canoe unless I want to.”

“Use any canoe you like and as many as you like as long as they don’t have motors in them. We’re to start at the old bridge and finish here at the corner of the float. And if I get here first you black my shoes. And if you get here first I’m to black yours. Right?”

“Yes,” said Gary; and Jeffrey and Gibbs nodded.

“And there’s one other thing,” said Poke. “I want a good job done, Bull; no skimping the heels, you know!”

Gary grinned. “If you don’t get your shoes blackened until I do them, Poke, they’ll be sights.”