“But they say, Poke,” said one of his hearers, “that you don’t know how to paddle.”
“Don’t know how to paddle! Me? Well, if you want to believe everything you hear, that’s not my fault. Without desiring to appear conceited, fellows, I think I may lay claim to being the nicest little paddler in this state, if not in the country. I can paddle with my eyes shut and one hand tied securely behind my back. I am the only successful exponent of the Bob Cook stroke.”
“That’s a rowing stroke, you crazy chump!”
“What of it? I have adapted it to canoeing,” replied Poke calmly. “It is the stroke with which I shall win to-morrow’s classic event, gentlemen. I trust that you will all be on hand to see how it is done.”
“We’ll be on hand to see how you are done,” a fellow laughed. “Honestly, Poke, you’ve got more cheek than any fellow in the country!”
“I?” said Poke with a demure smile. “You surprise me. It shows how you misjudge my character, Tom. I am a modest little violet, did you but know it.”
“We didn’t but know it, Poke,” replied Tom.
“The kind of a violet he means,” said another, “is about the size of a soup plate, is yellow and grows in the sun.”
“Get out,” said Poke, “that’s a forget-me-not! You’d better go back to the Junior Class and study your botany again.”
“Well, we’ll all be on hand to-morrow morning, Poke, to root for you. And, say, Poke, if you lose, you know, I’ll lend you my blacking set!”