As the radio boys had surmised, getting up the aerial was a blisteringly hot job, and before they had been at it many minutes the perspiration was running off them in streams. They kept doggedly at it, however, and at last the final turn-buckle had been tightened up, and everything looked taut and shipshape.
“There!” exclaimed Bob, looking with satisfaction at the result of their labors. “I guess it will take a pretty strong gale to knock that outfit over.”
“A cyclone, you mean,” said Joe. “I don’t think anything short of that would even bother it.”
“Well, we’ll hope not,” said Bob. “Who’s going for a swim? It would take a whole school of sharks to keep me out of the water now.”
The others were of the same mind, and it did not take them long to jump into their bathing suits and make a dash for the white beach. A gentle surf was breaking with a cool, splashing rumble that seemed almost like an invitation to come in and get cool. The boys were not long in accepting it, and dashed in with shouts and laughter. They were all good swimmers, and they gave themselves up to the delight of breasting the incoming breakers, rising and falling with the slow heave and swell of the cool, green ocean. Puffing and blowing, flinging the spray from their eyes, they passed beyond the surf, and then slowed down, just exerting themselves enough to keep their heads above water.
“Wow!” exclaimed Jimmy. “This is the life, eh, fellows?”
“I’ll say so!” agreed Bob. “Where’s that shark of yours, Herb?”
“Oh, I suppose he’s away visiting some friends of his,” said Herb. “But if you wait around long enough, we’ll probably see him. Just have a little patience, can’t you?”
“All the patience in the world,” laughed Joe. “I don’t really care how long he stays away, myself.”
“He couldn’t catch me if he did come around,” boasted Jimmy. “I’ll bet none of you hobos can catch me, anyway,” and he was off in a smother of foam.