The boys preferred to try their luck singly. Ernest picked up the oars awkwardly. He had had little experience in rowing and he felt self-conscious under the Captain’s eye. His first stroke sent a shower of drops flying over them.
“Here,” called Sherm, “that isn’t a hose you’re handling!”
“Anyhow, the drops feel lovely and cool.” Katy was inclined to defend Ernest.
“A longer, slower stroke will do the work better and not blister your hands so quickly,” admonished Captain Clarke. “Our future admiral must learn to row a boat skillfully. You boys are welcome to use it whenever you see fit.”
193Ernest set his lips together firmly and soon had the boat skimming along rapidly, though still rather jerkily, his strokes being more energetic than regular. The woods were already echoing with soft night noises, frogs croaked; the clicking notes of the katydids mingled with the whining of the wind through the boughs overhead. Part of the pool disappeared in the shadows; the rest broke into shimmering ripples with every stroke of the oars.
“Oh, I love the night time!” exclaimed Chicken Little. “Seems as if everything in the world had done its day’s work and was sitting down to talk it over–even the frogs. Don’t you s’pose they’re glad or sorry about things when night comes, just as we are?”
Sherm looked at Chicken Little, who was leaning over the side of the boat, trailing her hand in the water.
“Chicken Little, you work your imagination overtime–it will wear out if you aren’t careful.”
She rewarded him with a grimace.
“You are getting a much evener stroke, Ernest,” observed the Captain.