“All right.”
“If you capsize, you won’t get a cent and I’ll take it out of your hide.”
A grin of understanding was the Indian’s reply, and, nodding to the boys, he started toward the Superior end of the canal.
“Meet you here at the power-house,” said the skipper, as Phil and Ted hurried after the redman.
Arrived at an inlet on the lake, the Indian shoved a twenty-foot birch-bark canoe off the beach and held it while the boys got in.
“You here,” he grunted, motioning Ted to a seat in the bow. “You here;” and he put Phil amidships. “No move. Sit still. Heap easy tip over. No move, un’erstan’?”
“We do,” chorused his passengers.
Taking his paddle, Afraid-of-his-wife kneeled down in the stern, and with a few powerful strokes sent the canoe out onto the lake and then turned it toward the foaming, roaring rapids.
As the frail craft was caught in the current and raced toward the raging torrent, the boys instinctively grabbed the gunwales.
“No move!” cried the Indian.