"Would you have them set me down a boaster?" Harry was eager now. His mother knew "them" meant "her," and her heart yearned more and more to the son who was drifting away.
"Indigo!" he cried out the window to his valet.
"But the danger—was it not there the canoeist was drowned last year?" said his mother, anxiously.
"Hang the danger! It's the prospect of scraping the bottom off my new canoe that troubles me."
"Old age is privileged to prate, I suppose," said Mrs. Arnold, feebly attempting to smile.
"Cut the fingers off that lemon-colored mitten, Indigo, and get me some salve double quick. My oar blister's worse than ever."
Indigo sped up stairs for the scissors, and the party was soon on its way.
At the bridge Harry left them, proceeding alone to the boat-house, up-stream, while Indigo led the others to a rock below the rapids, where they were to witness the feat. To look at the long slope, nowhere steep, but white from end to end with foam, it did seem incredible that any craft could live through such a surge. The murmur was audible far away in the still countryside, and the air, even where the three onlookers stood, was moist with impalpable spray.
"Looks as though that wager was mine," said Tristram. "He might as well try to swim Niagara."
"Ought we not to have a rope in case of accident?" said Mrs. Arnold.