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!