“If I could only have some kind of a mark to steer by—a light or somethin’.”
“There’s that big h-hemlock,” says Mark, pointing. “That will s-s-stick up against the sky, and you could head for it.”
“Well,” says I, “I’ll try it, but I’d rather go to an ice-cream festival. It’ll be pretty chilly.”
“We’ll rub lard on you,” says Mark.
“Rather have it in pie crust,” I says, for the idea of being greased up from top to toe didn’t set well on my stomach.
“I’ve been t-thinkin’ things over,” says Mark, “and it looks to me like it was our duty to try to get this letter sent to the Japanese minister.”
“It’s a shame,” says I, “that there ain’t more swimmers in this crowd. I’ll turn into a fish.”
“You’d better start about an hour before s-s-sun-up,” says Mark. “That will get you safe to shore before daylight. Then strike for the road and wait for s-s-somebody to come along. Give ’em the letter to mail.”
“Sure,” says I, “and what about comin’ back?”
“Better get back as soon’s you can. They’re l-likely to make some kind of an attack.”