“Let’s get this door on the truck and move our raft,” Org urged.
It was not hard to do. The pine door was not very heavy, and from the time they got it out of the building, the route was down hill to the edge of the pond. They pushed the truck into the water, easily floated the door off, and then tugged mightily to drag the truck back to the empty storehouse again.
They found two long poles which would serve to steer with, and raced back to the edge of the pond and climbed aboard their raft.
The door sustained them just as long as most of their weight was on their poles, and they were trying to push off. At last they worked their raft out to about four feet of water and felt free to lift their steering-poles and ride.
Then that door slowly sank under their weight until the water was up to their knees, to their waists, to their shoulders. It stopped in its downward journey when it rested on the sandy bottom, and the two lads stood on it, looking at each other with the utmost astonishment, raising their chins to keep the water out of their mouths.
“You done got yo’ nice Sunday clothes all wet,” Little Bit sighed.
“Yours are wet, too,” Org retorted.
“Dis here is my eve’y-day suit. I ain’t got no all-Sonday gyarments. I wears dese ladylike clothes all de time.”
“I’m sorry you spoilt your only suit,” Org sympathized.
“’Tain’t spiled—it’s jes’ wet,” Little Bit replied. “Whut is us gwine do now?”