"I'm sure you paddle beautifully ... D'you mind if I call you Fanshaw ... It's a funny name like a stage name. Look at them!"
Phoebe had snatched the bullrush and was beating Cham over the head. The brown fluff fell about them bright in the streaming sunlight. Fanshaw found himself picking up Cham's straw hat, palping a dent in the rim with his finger. Cham's hair shone yellow; he grabbed the pink girl's hand. The bullrush broke off and the head fell into the river, floated in the middle of brown bright rings.
"Ow, damn it, you hurt," she cried shrilly. "There now, you made me say damn."
"Momma kiss it an' make it well."
Fanshaw found the blue girl's grey glance wriggling into his eyes.
"Silly, ain't they? Kids, are they not?"
The ain't stung in Fanshaw's ears. The girl was common. The thought made him blush.
"Come along, let's get started. Man the boats," cried Cham.
"I'm scared o' canoes. You can paddle all right, can't you, Fanshaw?" The blue girl pressed his hand tight as they stood irresolute a moment looking down into the canoe. The other canoe was off, upstream into the noon dazzle.
"Come along," shouted Cham. The sun flashed on his paddle. He began singing off key: