“Plague take it!” he muttered. “It’s worse than walking a tight-rope!”
“Easy there, easy,” laughed Ben. “First rule in a canoe is never to move quickly. When you shift your weight, do it slowly. Pretty soon it’ll come as natural as riding a bicycle.”
“Riding a balky horse, you mean,” said Tuckerman. “All right; I’ll remember.” He dipped the tip of his paddle into the water and gave a tiny shove.
Ben gave a long sweep with his paddle, a dexterous twist at the end of the stroke, and the Red Rover floated smoothly away from the landing-stage.
With Ben’s coaching, Tuckerman soon was able to paddle fairly well. He found it somewhat difficult to keep the bow evenly balanced, but as Ben anticipated his movements and shifted automatically from side to side, Tuckerman gained confidence and soon was sitting steady.
They paddled along shore, past the camp and on to the upper end of the island. Tuckerman, feeling more and more at ease, was delighted with the motion, with the gentle swish of the water, with the still, starlit night, with the panorama of beach and cliffs and woods as they floated by.
“Let’s go on around the island,” he suggested. “This isn’t real work at all.”
Ben smiled to himself. He knew that Tuckerman would discover next morning several muscles in his back and shoulders that he wasn’t accustomed to feeling. But the night was perfect for a paddle. “All right,” he agreed. “No, don’t you try to do any steering. The man in the stern does that.” With a couple of twists he turned the bow to the north. “There,” he said, “there’s the cliff where Sampson hid the chest in the pocket.”
Tuckerman turned to look. The Red Rover wobbled, slanted.
Ben shifted and righted her quickly. “Hi there!” he warned.