That would get us to our dinner in good
time and in good trim."
"All right. Let's, then."
"Only, you'll have to do most of the swimming," said Randolph. "My few
small feats are all accomplished pretty close to shore."
"Never mind. Company's the thing. A fellow finds it rather slow, going in
alone."
Cope whisked off his clothes with incredible rapidity and piled them--or
flung them--under the basswoods: the suddenly resuscitated technique of the
small-town lad who could take avail of any pond or any quiet stretch of
river on the spur of the moment. He waded in quickly up to his waist, and
then took an intrepid header. His lithe young legs and arms threw
themselves about hither and yon. After a moment or two he got on his feet
and made his way back across a yard of fine shingle to the sand itself. He
was sputtering and gasping, and the long yellow hair, which usually lay in
a flat clean sweep from forehead to occiput, now sprawled in a grotesque
pattern round his temples.
"B-r-r! It _is_ cold, sure enough. But jump in. The air will be all
right. I'll be back with you in a moment."
Randolph advanced to the edge, and felt in turn.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103