It was a dug-out, as ancient and dilapidated as its owner, and, in order to get into it without capsizing, Daughtry wet one leg to the ankle and the other leg to the knee.

The old man contorted himself aboard, rolling his body across the gunwale so quickly, that, even while it started to capsize, his weight was across the danger-point and counterbalancing the canoe to its proper equilibrium.
Michael remained on the beach, waiting invitation, his mind not quite made up, but so nearly so that all that was required was that lip-noise.
Dag Daughtry made the lip-noise so low that the old man did not hear, and Michael, springing clear from sand to canoe, was on board without wetting his feet.

Using Daughtry's shoulder for a stepping-place, he passed over him and down into the bottom of the canoe.

Daughtry kissed with his lips again, and Michael turned around so as to face him, sat down, and rested his head on the steward's knees.
"I reckon I can take my affydavy on a stack of Bibles that the dog just up an' followed me," he grinned in Michael's ear.
"Washee-washee quick fella," he commanded.
The ancient obediently dipped his paddle and started pottering an erratic course in the general direction of the cluster of lights that marked the _Makambo_.

But he was too feeble, panting and wheezing continually from the exertion and pausing to rest off strokes between strokes.