VIII—THE CANOE
David would have liked to have taken to his heels and beaten it down the road to the bay, but he was not allowed to do this. Not only the Tigers, but all that section of New Hampshire appeared to think that he had vindicated the honor of the country against the big cities, represented in this case by the boys of Camp Amoussock. Horny-handed farmers insisted on coming up and shaking his hand, slapping him on the back, inviting him to supper. And what tickled Ben more than anything else was to see the girl who had exclaimed, “I thought this fellow looked like he could knock a home run!” push her way through the crowd and thrust out her hand at David.
Ben nudged Tom. “Look at our brave boy now.”
The girl was saying, “I knew you looked like a winner. I’ve got a kid brother at home; he’s got a sore foot and couldn’t get over here; but I’m going to tell him how you soaked that ball and hit the old cow, and maybe he won’t be excited! What’s your name? He’ll want to know.”
No beet was ever redder than David’s face as he gave a sheepish grin. “David Norton,” he said. And as the girl insisted on shaking hands he touched her fingers gingerly. “Much obliged,” he stammered. “Hope the kid’s foot gets well again. Funny about that cow;—hope it didn’t hurt her.”
“I wouldn’t care,” said the girl, “if it broke one of her ribs. But don’t you worry, Mr. Norton. I’m right glad to have met you.” And she pushed her way out of the throng again, delighted to be able to tell her kid brother that she had shaken hands with the hero of the day.
“You may be a mighty batter,” said Ben, when David was able at last to rejoin his friends, “but when it comes to the girls you’re a beautiful imitation of a wooden Indian. You shake hands like a pump.”
“Oh, cut it out,” growled David, who always stood more or less in fear of girls, and hated to be teased about them. “I suppose you’d have made her some kind of a pretty speech; asked her to dance, perhaps.”
“I’d have looked as if I liked being told how fine I was. Oh, what a shame it is that nobody ever says such things to me,” sighed Ben, “when I’m the one that could really appreciate them!”
Sandy Hapgood now came up, and David, eager to be rid of any more talk about the game, hurried his friends away. “Looks like a thunderstorm,” he said, squinting at the sky, where dark clouds were rapidly rising.