Yes, the water was deep—ten miles deep, he guessed—because it took an awful while to come up. Yes, he had been pulled out by somebody. Perhaps it might have been a girl. A big girl. A perfectly tremendous girl. A regular giantess, in fact. She had reached down with a long, long arm, and helped him up. A fishnet? Oh—yes (casually), he believed there was a fish net there.
"Where," asked Mrs. Fairchild, "was that dock?"
"Oh, I dunno—just around anywhere. There's a lot of docks in Bancroft—a fellow doesn't look to see which one he's on."
"But, Roger, where does the girl live? We ought to do something for her. I'm very grateful to her. You ought to be too. Can't you tell me where she lives?"
"Didn't ask her," mumbled Roger. "I just hiked for home."
"And you don't know her name?"
"No," said Roger, truthfully. "I didn't ask her that, either. I'm glad I got my pole back, anyhow."
"Roger," said his mother, earnestly, "hereafter, when you go fishing, I shall go with you and sit beside you on the dock and hold on to you. Another time there might not be a great big, strong girl on hand to pull you out. We must thank that girl."
"I hate girls," said Roger, who had finally escaped from his persistent mother. "And small ones—Yah!"
The girl that he thought he hated most was eleven years of age, and small at that. Yet, because of her carefree, outdoor life, she was wiry and strong; as active, too, as a squirrel. Also, she did a great deal of thinking.