Tuck said: "Don’t get reckless, now. I know what you are in a snarl like this."

As he said the words we made our first plunge, our sturdy basswood shivering like an aspen, but darting ahead like an arrow leaving an Indian bowstring. Another dip, and Tuck got a bucket of water in the face, but he sat like a rock, while I shouted astern: "Revenge, revenge! " Another shiver, a shower of spray, a dash of twenty yards, and we were in the first "link." I snatched off my cap, gripped my paddle afresh, barely in time as we hurled dashingly into the second rapids, and so ran the Wild Cat, obeying my blade through the entire Eleven Links, after which we beached for dinner and breath, first patting her gunwales and telling her what a brave old boat she was.

Then a stretch of calm, silent waters, tired as a child after play hour, a run through the Town of Paris, a portage over its unrunnable dam, and we covered our last stretch for home.

Fifteen miles of alternate ruffled and gentle shores; of purling, landlocked streams, of yellow beaches and of

Quaint sandpaper winging O’er the shallows, ceases singing Where we move;

Of banks starred with trilliums and wild violets; of hills yellow with dandelions, lagoons spike with blades of river iris, and then, familiar spires and steeples outline the eastward sky, before us lies Brantford, sleeping in the sunshine, behind us laughs the wild old river out of its rocky gorge at Elora, we drift slowly, regretfully toward the boathouse, where stand the men who taunted us with probable failure. We have had no disaster, no upset, nothing but success, so the men cheer and hurrah us, call us "some of the boys," and shake hands heartily as we beach the last time, for our sweet, mad cruise is over.

Word Count: 3447