The plan met with some grumbling from Tom and Les and other stubborn spirits; but it won, and dumping their clothes into their skiff they made a change of base, wading and swimming and towing their boats, the scull-boat bottom up.
The South Beaufort gang did not follow them, but, disembarking upon the beach, went in swimming.
The breakwater was a few rods down stream. It was a long, stout parapet of heavy, square timbers laid end to end, bolted and braced. It extended up from the bridge, parallel with the shore, for two hundred yards, and was designed to aid the rafters in sliding their rafts through; it held the rafts off from the shore.
Behind it was water more or less shallow, and lukewarm from the sun. In front of it was deep water, and considerable current.
At the risk of getting numerous splinters some of the boys scaled the breakwater by running up the braces planted against it in the rear, the others amused themselves among the tiny bays and inlets formed between it and the shore line. Bob, after vainly trying to follow Ned to the top, decided that he would take a turn through the near-by woods.
The breakwater was amply broad enough to give secure footing. The boys lolled about upon it, the sunshine soaking them through and through, and the novelty of their high position adding to the fun.
“Come on; let’s dive, all together,” proposed Ned, briskly rousing to action.
“That’s right—all together,” seconded Tom.
Nobody opposed, and the six of them stood in a row.
“I’ll count, and at ‘three’ down we go,” said Ned. “Make ready——”