Then
came the horror, the fear of an accident. Suppose something happened to
the canoe. Suppose she split her bow on a rock. Suppose His Excellency
"lost his head" and got nervous. Suppose a thousand things. But Bob
put it all resolutely behind him. He felt his strong young muscles,
his vital fingers, his pliant wrists. Yes, it was a great thing to be
a boy--a boy whose great pride had always been to excel in typical
Canadian sports, to be the "crack" canoeist, and to handle a paddle with
the ease of a professional. It was worth everything in the world to
recall the time when someone had tauntingly said, "Oh, Bob Stuart's no
good at cricket and baseball. Why, he can't even play tennis. All he
can do is to potter at his old Canuck sports of paddling a canoe and
swinging a lacrosse stick." And Bob had laughed with satisfaction, and
said, good-naturedly, "You bet! You're right. I'm for our national games
every time." And now had come the reward; he was to run the rapids with
the representative of the throne of Great Britain in the bow of his
canoe.
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