“Nobody does,” replied Poke untroubledly, passing his plate for a second helping of vegetables. “They’re exactly alike!”
“Well, we will all be there to see you finish,” laughed Jim.
“And we’ll all be there to see him black Bull Gary’s shoes,” added Gil.
Poke viewed him sorrowfully. “It pains me deeply, Gil, to find you have so little faith in me. I used to think you were my friend.”
“You can show him all about rowing a canoe, can’t you, Jeff?” asked Hope anxiously. “I should think if he practised hard to-morrow he’d just beat that Gary boy all to bits!”
“There will be very little left of him but bits after the race,” said Poke. “I feel sorry for him, fellows; I actually do.”
The rest hooted.
Poke proved a diligent pupil that afternoon. Jeffrey gave him the stern paddle and Poke labored hard with it. And by the time darkness drove them back to the boat-house Poke had actually mastered the trick of holding the canoe straight after the stroke. The next day, which was Friday, there were two sessions on the river, one in the morning, between Latin and English recitations, and one again after practice in the late afternoon.
“You really did very well,” said Jeffrey as they went back to Sunnywood through the chilly twilight. “If you can do a little bit better to-morrow you may stand a chance of finishing pretty well.”
“I shall win,” replied Poke with deep conviction.