“Never mind the Frenchman now, Marmaduke;” replied Will; “English will float you through the world.”
Jim had hardly stepped into the water when he cried out, “Oh, boys, the water is too cold and nasty; I’m shi-i-ivering!”
“Well, then,” sang out Steve, whose head was bobbing up and down some thirty yards from the shore, “bundle on your clothes, and play the anchor to that punt. It’ll drift across the lake, if somebody doesn’t take charge of it.”
But it was cold and disagreeable, and their swimming was of short duration. They waded ashore with chattering teeth, and huddled on their clothes as quickly as their shivering limbs would permit.
“Boys, suppose that we go home by land?” Steve proposed. “It wouldn’t be so very far, and then it would be a change.”
“That’s a capital idea, Steve; but what would become of the dingey? We mus’n’t leave it here,” said Will.
“Then let us make off.”
Without delay the six took their places in the punt, and shoved off.
There was now not only a perceivable swell, but also a perceivable breeze. In a word, the scullers found that it was unnecessary to handle their sculls, for the punt drifted merrily seaward without a stroke from them.
“Look here, boys,” cried the Sage, prefacing his remarks, as usual, with his darling expression, “we could hardly make the shore a while ago; and now just see how fast we are drifting out! I don’t believe we could get back to our swimming place; let us try it.”