"It's a game," I grunted, "and these two fellows will have me beat if I don't look lively."
"Right Bower," she says then, slow and deliberate, "I can see you're upside down about something. Tell Ivy."
"Look," says I—"smoke! I never got it so quick before." I spun the pointed stick between the palms of my hands harder than ever and gloated over the wisp of smoke that came from where it was boring into the flat stick.
"Make a bow," says Ivy. "Loop the bowstring round the hand-piece and you'll get more friction with less work."
"By gorry!" says I; "you're right. I remember a picture in a geography—'Native Drilling a Conch Shell.' Fool that I am to forget!"
"Guess you and I learned out of the same geography," said Ivy.
"Only I didn't learn," said I. "I'm off to cut something tough to make the bow."
"Don't go far," she says.
"Why not?" said I—the sporty way a man does when he pretends that he's going to take a night off with the boys and play poker.