Good luck! here would be easy game!
"Now then!" There was no limit to their delight as they saluted Joel in
every conceivable way best fitted to get him worked up. "How are you, snob?
Don't you want your oar?" and such things, every boy contributing at least
a few selections to the general hubbub, the black dog on the bank emitting
shrill, ear-splitting barks of distress.
"Give me back my oar," roared Joel, sitting very straight and unconsciously
rolling up his sleeves.
"Hi there! Come on and fight, if you want to," cried several of the crew,
with sneers and catcalls, and they brandished the oar at him over their
heads, yelling, "Why don't you come on and fight?"
[Illustration: The unlucky oar was seized by the triumphant crew]
"If you don't give me back my oar," cried Joel angrily, and paddling for
dear life toward them, "it 'll be worse for you, I can tell you. My
Grandpapa----"
He was drowned in a storm of yells: "Your granddaddy? Fellows, this baby is
talking of his granddaddy," and they screamed in derision, snapping their
fingers and swinging the oar as high as they could tantalizingly at him.
Round and round went Joel's boat, describing a series of curves, that
despite all his efforts only carried him away from his tormentors. What he
would have done, had he reached them, hadn't entered his head, his only
thought being to get up to them.
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