"I suppose it doesn't make any difference which one I take," he said, and, either by accident or design, he singled out Neal's boat and put it into the water. Edith stepped in, and then watched Bronson's movements with some trepidation. He did not seem to know much about the management of a canoe, and they rocked alarmingly with his short, uncertain strokes.
"I'll soon get the hang of it," he said, reassuringly. "I have never been much on a river, but it's easy enough."
Cynthia walked along the bank, watching them.
"I hope you've got a life-preserver, Edith! Mr. Bronson says he is in the habit of upsetting—likes it, in fact—and I'm dreadfully afraid for you. You know you can't swim, and Mr. Bronson will never be able to save you as well as himself. Do be careful of my sister, Mr. Bronson. The ditch is rather deep just there. Oh, look at him wiggle!" she added to Neal, who had followed her.
"And the fellow has taken my canoe!" growled Neal.
"Poor Neal! You boasted too soon. You'll never again be able to say there isn't a scratch on the bottom."
"I only hope I shall ever see the boat again. He'll probably smash her all to smithereens."
"I suppose it makes no difference if Edith is 'smashed to smithereens,' only the canoe," remarked Cynthia, demurely.
In the mean time Edith was having an exciting voyage. Bronson paddled slowly and unevenly up the river until he found himself in the rapids, which were much swifter and more dangerous than those they had passed through on the way from Oakleigh. The canoe scraped and creaked over the rocks. The only wonder was that a hole was not stove at once in the bottom.
They were in the midst now of the rushing water. Suddenly the boat lodged for a moment on a rock, and swayed to and fro. Down to the very water's edge went first one side and then the other. A half-inch more and they would have capsized.