“Give him to Ellick—he likes to eat frog legs. Come on, here comes Fellowes with his tin horn ready to blow First Call.”
Blackie picked up his bed and made his way to Tent Four. All his tent-mates were awake and laughing at little Guppy, who had just discovered that his nightgown was floating in the breeze at the top of the flagpole. The bugle’s call routed them all out to formation in front of the lodge, where after a snappy setting-up drill the entire camp flew down the slope to the boat dock for the Indian dip.
The blue waters of the lake reflected a hundred white bodies standing about the edge of the dock waiting for Wally’s whistle. No sooner had it sounded than there was a tremendous plunging and splashing as most of them tumbled head-first into the crisp, bracing water. A few younger boys and timid souls waded in from the shore.
“Stick your head under, Toots!”
“Oh, boy! Say, ain’t this water cold?”
“It ain’t cold, you dummy. Just the way I like it—wakes me up fine!”
Blackie took a swift racing dive off the front end of the dock, swept cleanly through the water in a shower of small bubbles, and came to the surface with a speedy overhand stroke. He swam some fifty yards out to the life-saving boat that was stationed there with Sax McNulty at the oars and a leader named Munson at the bow, and there floated a minute. He was surprised to hear the trill of the whistle, followed by cries of “All out!”
Swimming over to the dock again, he shouted in a grieved tone to Wally, who was supervising the general exodus from the water, “What’s the idea, Wally? Do you call this a swim?”
“Of course not—this is just morning dip, and you’ll get a chill if you stay in long. Swim comes later.”
“Aw, heck!” Somewhat disgruntled, he climbed out and raced back to the tent to dress for breakfast.