“Couldn’t I? I’ll row you again any time you like; if I can find some one to take the bow,” he added with a disgusted glare at Gibbs.
Gibbs grinned and winked at Poke. “What you want in the bow, Bull,” he said, “is a gasoline motor!”
“I tell you what I’ll do with you,” offered Poke quietly. “I’ll race you Saturday morning up-stream from the old bridge to the landing here. You take any canoe you like and I’ll do the same. It isn’t the canoe, Bull, it’s science that counts!”
“Science!” scoffed Bull. “Why, you couldn’t paddle that far to save your life!”
“Don’t let that worry you,” Poke replied soothingly. “Will you try it?”
“What would be the use? You say yourself that you’ve never paddled a canoe before.”
“I know, but I’m awfully quick to learn, Bull. I’m a clever little lad that way. What do you say, now? Try it? We’ll start at the old bridge and I’ll beat you to the boat-house here. If I don’t get here at least a length ahead of you I’ll black your shoes for you on the front steps of Mem!”
“I hope you lose,” said Gibbs vindictively. “Bull’s shoes need blacking most of the time.”
“All right,” said Gary. “I’ll race you. And if I don’t beat you I’ll—I’ll—”