“Yes—just about,” answered Ben.
“You are very strong and courageous,” she said.
Ben’s blush deepened and spread.
“Oh, it wasn’t much. Nothing like as bad as it looks. And we didn’t quite make it, anyhow. My paddle broke off clean just above the blade just before we struck smooth water—and so we struck something else instead!”
“You are very courageous. Dad wouldn’t do it, even in our big pirogue. We let it through on a rope.”
“And he did right,” said Uncle Jim. “Yer dad showed his sense that time. I ain’t blaming Ben, you understand, for I don’t. It was different with Ben. He didn’t have any little girl in the canoe with him, but only a tough old uncle who was seasoned to falling into white water and black before Ben here was ever born. I enjoyed it. Ben was right, sure—but Dick Sherwood was righter, Marion. He came down those rapids with you just the way any other real good father would of done it.”
The little girl said nothing to that, but she went over and stood close to Uncle Jim and held his hand. Flora O’Dell grasped her son’s big right hand in both of hers. Her blue eyes filmed with tears.
“Ben, you upset in Big Rapids?” she whispered faintly.
“We were clear through, mother, and upset into the pool,” he said.
“I want you to be brave,” she continued, her voice very low in his ear. “But I want you to remember, dear, that you are the only O’Dell on this river now—on this earth—and that life would be very terrible for me without—an O’Dell.”