Out in mid-stream, with
both wind and current against him, Hal had considerable difficulty
in steering; his strong, muscular arms pulled little Freddy's stroke
around, and he bent to the work of "digging potatoes" with a vengeance.
The bow with its light boyish ballast would rise and rise again,
slapping down on the surface or taking the waves like a cork. Then came
a line of combers, one on top of another. The taut little Peterborough
rode the first like a shell, the second she dipped, the third she
shipped a whole bucketful of water. As it poured over the deck, little
Freddy flung himself backward to escape the drenching, the canoe dipped,
Freddy landed full weight on the leeward gunwale--and they were over.
For the first instant, Hal was conscious of but one thing, that he was
being struck through with the chill of the water on top of being in a
heat of perspiration with battling the canoe through the waves. Then he
came to the surface to see the canoe, turned turtle, floating bottom up
three yards away. Then a limp mass of brown clothes and brown curls
cannoned into him, and reaching out, he grasped Freddy.
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