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!”