ON THE RIVER

Jerry got to North Bank on Saturday and by Sunday he was well back in harness. Yet, because tidewater Maryland and mountain North Carolina are very different, and because on Sunday there was so little to engage his mind, he was just a bit homesick. Tom found him very quiet that afternoon and voted him mighty poor company, and, never suspecting the reason, went off about three with Joe Kirkham, leaving Jerry alone in Number 7. From the window of the room Jerry could look down along the Severn and see boats and canoes slipping about in the afternoon sunlight. The day was very warm and only a light breeze came from the direction of the Chesapeake, a breeze that barely fluttered the curtains at the casement. Past the corner of the gymnasium building, where a grove of trees made welcome shade and a number of knife-scarred benches stood, a group of fellows were whiling away the time. One of the boys had a banjo, and he was doing his best to render the popular air of the moment, but with scant success. Over in the library on the first floor of Founders’ Hall the windows were wide open and at one of them a “hound” was poring over a sober-looking volume, taking copious notes the while. [“Hound” was the school name for one who studied much yet still retained normal characteristics. A “dry” was one who carried the search for knowledge beyond the limits of reason and to the exclusion of all other interests. Drys were found only infrequently at North Bank.]

The sight of the studious youth reminded Jerry that it would not be amiss to have a look at his books, and so he collected a pile of them and took them back to the window seat. But his mind refused to interest itself in Latin or mathematics or anything else represented by the volumes beside him, and, in spite of his efforts, his thoughts flew back to Huckinsburg and Pap and the little white house under the shadow of the hogback, and he found himself getting bluer and bluer. To make matters worse, the boy with the banjo was strumming an accompaniment rather sketchily and another youth with a fairly good tenor voice was singing a sad, wailing melody the words of which reached Jerry plainly:

I got a little piece o’ land, I got a cabin on it; My Mandy dresses stylish and She wears a sky-blue bonnet. Ol’ Marster’s mighty kind to me, Ol’ Mistress she is kinder, But I’m a-pinin’ just to be Back home in Carolinar.

Jerry pushed the books aside, seized his old straw hat and closed the door of Number 7 resolutely behind him. He didn’t join the group under the trees, although he knew most of them, but followed the circling road past Follen and Ellicot and cut across the grass toward the river bank. Tom and Joe had gone out in Joe’s sailing canoe, and he had some thought of finding them within hailing distance of the float. But when he reached it the craft he sought was not in sight.

Nor was there any one within sight that he did know, and he was on the point of retracing his steps when the open door of the boathouse met his gaze. The twilit building, like the float outside, was deserted. Jerry had never been in there before. On the farther side, one above the other, were the three slender eight-oar shells, their varnished hulls glowing softly in the half-light. Near by were several pair-oars and tubs. But most of the racks held canoes of various colors, although many places were vacant this afternoon. There was a number over each space and, usually, a card giving the owner’s name. By chance the second card that Jerry read bore the inscription “W. C. Conger,” and Billy’s canary-yellow canoe was in place, paddles over the thwarts. Billy had more than once in the spring offered Jerry the use of the craft, and Jerry had never taken advantage of the offer. As a matter of fact, Jerry knew little about canoes and only once had set foot in one. Then Tom and Wayne Sortwell had paddled him up the river and he had sat very still in the middle and wondered what would happen if the wobbly thing overturned! Jerry was a poor swimmer and the canoe had been a long way from the shore. Yesterday the idea of embarking alone in one of the frail contraptions would have given him the creeps. To-day, for some reason, he considered it quite seriously, finding a certain exhilarating thrill in contemplating the attendant dangers. He even lifted one end of the canoe tentatively, wondering whether he could get it into the water unassisted. But I don’t think he would have gone any farther than that if Hal Mansfield had not appeared at the very moment he was setting the end of the canoe down again on the rack.

“Hello, Benson,” said the football captain. “Going out? Here, I’ll help you and you can give me a hand with mine.”

“I was just pondering,” answered Jerry. “Maybe Billy Conger might want it himself to-day. I reckon I won’t risk it.”

“Billy’s on the river already,” replied Mansfield. “He and Topham went out half an hour ago. So you needn’t worry about his wanting it. Take hold.”

There didn’t seem to be any excuse left, at least none that Jerry could think of in the instant, and a moment later he was dropping his end of the craft into the water at the end of the float. Mansfield set the other end on the boards and then they went back and brought out a crimson canoe with a resplendent “H. M.” in monogram on the bow. Jerry was very solicitous about the other boy and held the crimson craft steady until he was settled, paddle in hands. He preferred to let Mansfield get away from the float before he tried his fortunes.

“Thanks,” said Mansfield. “Which way are you going? Want to try a little race?”

Jerry shook his head. “No, I reckon I’ll just row around a bit. Paddle, I mean. I――I ain’t much of a paddler.”

Hal Mansfield laughed as he dipped his blade and shot the crimson canoe away. “That listens well, Benson, but I’ll bet you’re a shark at it. Bye!”

Jerry waited until the other was well away, pretending to be vastly interested in his progress, before he lifted his own craft into the water and, mooring it with one foot, climbed gingerly into the stern seat. The thing rocked alarmingly and Jerry had a feeling of being dangerously high above the water. He dipped his paddle experimentally and the canoe slipped easily forward. Certainly, he reflected, paddling didn’t require much effort. He had merely to touch the water and the craft fairly ran away! Unfortunately, though, it didn’t run straight. He had meant to go upstream, and instead of that he found that he was going down! So he lifted his paddle out and took two or three strokes on the other side. That had the required effect, but the water ran down the paddle and into one sleeve. He knew that it was possible to paddle over one side and yet keep the canoe on its course, but he didn’t know the trick of it. So, affecting a nonchalance he was far from feeling, he began a lazy, desultory progress up the river, fancying that the occupants of the several canoes and skiffs within sight were watching him derisively. The bow was too far out of the water, and what breeze there was caught it now and then and whisked it around toward the bank, and Jerry recalled, too late, the fact that Hal Mansfield had seated himself in the middle of his canoe instead of in the stern. However, he wouldn’t have attempted to crawl forward in the uncertain thing for a thousand dollars, and so he made the best of the conditions and pretended that he wouldn’t have had them any different. One thing he did do, though, was hug the shore. In case of shipwreck he meant to be where he could almost if not actually walk to land!

After a few minutes he made the discovery that paddling affected the muscles more than he had suspected, that his position was awkward and confining and that it was a great relief to change over occasionally, as was necessary if he was to follow the margin of the stream and not merely describe a circle. By that time the water had penetrated as far as his elbow, inside his shirt sleeve, and while it felt refreshingly cool on such a warm day it also gave him a somewhat bedraggled feeling. Remaining close to the high bank of the river shut him off considerably from what breeze there was and it wasn’t long before he was in a fine perspiration and had begun to wonder whether canoeing was considered an exhilarating sport!

Nevertheless, having worked his way a good half mile above the school and around the first turn, he felt a not unnatural pride of accomplishment and a consequent contempt for danger. And so, having paused for a moment to rest his back――for that suffered more than his arms from the novel exercise――he watched the bow of the canoe drift away from the shore while a bold resolve formed itself in his mind. That resolve was to venture into midstream and, since the current was setting toward the mouth of the river, float placidly back to the school without exertion. It was quite evident to him by now that a canoe was a reasonable contrivance; that if you didn’t move about in it, it would behave itself and bear you around in safety. He viewed the borrowed craft almost affectionately and even wondered how much one like it would cost. Then, his back having stopped aching, he dipped his paddle again and propelled the canoe straight away from shore. He experienced a moment’s uneasiness as he watched the river bank recede, but, the die once cast, he put fear behind him. Upstream a way a sailing canoe was tacking toward the further shore, and he was almost certain that it held Tom and Joe, and he hoped that they would overtake him before he reached the school landing and see what a skilled and intrepid mariner he was.

Near the middle of the river he straightened the canoe out and laid the paddle across his knees. His progress was much slower than he had expected it to be. In fact, for awhile he wasn’t certain that he was moving at all. Presently, though, by dint of keeping his eyes for several minutes on a tall tree across the water, he was able to persuade himself that he was making headway. A cautious look over his shoulder showed him the sailing canoe headed toward him from the shadowed water of the southern shore, although still a good half mile away. There was no other craft in sight above him, for the afternoon was fast waning. Now and then he dipped his blade to straighten the bow out, but otherwise he let the current do the work while he watched the white tower of Founders’ Hall come into sight around the wooded bank below. Several canoes and skiffs were paddling homeward toward the float, gayly-hued dots on the gleaming river.

When five minutes had passed he turned for another look at the sailing canoe behind him. He couldn’t see it over his left shoulder and he turned his head the other way. He couldn’t find it then, either! He searched the farther bank for sight of the little creamy-white sail and searched the glinting surface of the stream beyond the bend. That canoe had just simply vanished! Or so, at least, he thought for a long minute. Then, in the act of withdrawing his gaze, his eyes encountered a blur on the water no more than a quarter of a mile back. At first he thought that the occupants of the missing craft had lowered the sail and stepped the mast, for all he could make out was a grayish something lying uncertainly on the gleaming surface of the water. It was a long moment before the truth came to him and he realized that what he saw was the bottom of the canoe and not the side, and then there was an appreciable instant ere he acted. From the direction of the landing no craft had headed upstream. Probably at that distance the sunlight on wavelets and ripples so blurred the vision that none saw what had happened. Even as he sensed this, Jerry, seizing the paddle, brought the yellow canoe around with a few hard, quick strokes that made it rock perilously. For once, though, he had no thought for danger. Paddling first on one side and then on the other, he drove the canoe forward with powerful sweeps, the high bow swinging to right and left, the craft rolling sidewise at each propulsion in a manner that at another time would have brought Jerry’s heart into his mouth!