“Shore enough good–I have to be,” floated back to his ears.
CHAPTER XVI
THE FLYING-MARE
THE Sunday morning following Blake’s visit to Ford’s Station found the Star C in excitement. Notwithstanding the fact that on every pleasant night after the day’s work had been done it was the custom for the outfit to indulge in a swim, and that Saturday night had been very pleasant, the Limping Water was being violently disturbed, and laughter and splashing greeted the sun as it looked over the rim of the bank. Cakes of soap glistened on the sand on the west bank and towels hung from convenient limbs of the bushes which fringed the creek.
Silent, who was noted among his companions for the length of time he could stay under water, challenged them to a submersion test. The rules were simple, inasmuch as they consisted in all plunging under at the same time, the winner being he who was the last man up. Silent had steadfastly refused to have his endurance timed, which his friends mistook for modesty, and no sooner had all “ducked under” than his head popped up–but this time he was not alone. Humble, whose utmost limit was not over half a minute, grew angry at his inability to make a good showing and craftily determined to take a handicap. The two stared at each other for a space and then burst into laughter, forgetting for the time being what they should do. Other heads bobbed up, and the secret was out. Only that Silent was the best swimmer in the crowd saved him from a ducking, and as it was he had to grab his clothes and run.
After being assured that he was forgiven for his trickery he rejoined his friends and his towel.
More fun was now the rule, for dressing required care. The sandy west bank sloped gradually to the water’s edge, and it was necessary to stand on one foot on a small stone in the water while the other was dipped to remove the sand. Still on one foot the other must be dried, the stocking put on, then the trouser leg and lastly the boot, and woe to the man who lost his balance and splashed stocking and trouser leg as he wildly sought to save it! Humble splashed while his foot was only half-way through the trouser leg, and The Orphan fared even worse. Then a race of awkward runners was on toward the bunk house, where breakfast was annihilated.
“Hey, Tom, what time do we leave?” asked Bud for the fifth time.
“Nine o’clock, you chump,” replied the foreman.
“Three whole hours yet,” grumbled Jim as he again plastered his hair to his head.