“Glad to know that you are so humane, Bess,” laughed Frank.
The girls trooped out to learn at closer range if the Blaisdell youth was really injured or only exhausted.
He lay panting like a big fish in the bottom of the skiff. It was altogether too cold an evening for him to be exposed in his wet clothing. When the skiff’s nose bumped into the shore, Dave Shepard leaped out with alacrity and secured the painter to a post.
“Get up out of there, Tubby!” he commanded. “You’ll get your death of dampness. Come on!”
“Oh–oh–oh! I can’t,” chattered the fat youth. “I–I’m fr-roze to the ve-ry mar-row of m-m-my bones!”
“The chill has struck in awful deep, then, Tubby,” cried Frank Cameron, from the river bank.
“Come on out of that!” commanded Dave. “I’m going to run you home so that you will not get cold.”
“Me?” chattered Blaisdell, rising like a turtle out of its shell. “Run me home? Wh-wh-why, I c-c-couldn’t do it. You know I couldn’t r-r-run that far, Dave.”
“He must go right in by our fire and get warm,” declared Wyn, quickly. “Get your things, girls, and we’ll all go home and leave Dave and Tubby to enjoy that nice fire Grace built.”
“That wet boy all over our nice rug!” exclaimed Bessie. “I object.”