“Huh, I ain’t afraid,” asserted Billy.
Resolutely he put one foot in. Involuntarily he flinched—but he followed it with the other. Witnessing his actions, reading that his toes were curling, you and Hen jeered and whooped. As you jeered, you continued to huddle, and to shrink within yourself. Gee, but it was cold! Somehow, the sun did not warm, and a little breeze, heretofore unnoted, enveloped you with an icy breath. You humped your shoulders, and your teeth chattered. Hen’s teeth, also, were chattering. You could hear them.
“Go on! Duck over!” you told Billy, derisively.
Billy was game. Suddenly, with water up to his quaking knees, he ducked. In an instant he was upright again—staggering, gasping, sputtering, but triumphant.
“Come on in!” he implored, wildly solicitous that you and Hen, hooting your glee, should participate more actively. “’Tain’t cold. What’s the matter with you?”
Followed by Hen you diffidently moved forward. Shivering, gingerly you teetered down, twigs and little stones hurting your yet tender soles.
Billy ducked again, apparently with the utmost relish, and floundered and splashed, his energy very marked.
You experimented with a foot—and hastily jerked it out.
“Gee!” you exclaimed. “I ain’t goin’ in! It’s too cold.”
“I ain’t, neither,” decreed Hen.