shores; indeed, none of the people they saw were within hail. Then Alan suddenly pushed the helm hard over, and the Sham-Poo lurched half up the bank, almost on top of a group of indignant working-people trotting home from the fields. Their voices rose in shrill protest, which grew when Mark appeared holding the now sleepy Ping-Pong, whom he offered them over the boat's side.
"You take!" he begged, with eloquent gestures of explanation.
But the clamor grew louder. The cries of "Yang-kwei-tse!" waxed more shrill. A clattering shower of stones hopped about the Sham-Poo's deck, and a slap of sticky mud landed on her roofing an inch away from Alan's eye.
"We or she or both or all are evidently unpopular," Mark said. "Shove! Shove like a good fellow, Alan!"
He put Ping-Pong down hastily and joined his brother in pushing off from the bank.
"Perhaps we didn't go at it right," he mused, in mid-stream. "I wouldn't blame them for not liking the way you charged right into them, old scout. When I said, the next old
