“Aw, ’tain’t cold a bit when you’ve wet over,” assured Billy eagerly—but suspiciously blue. “Take a dare—aw, I wouldn’t take a dare! You’re stumped! Yah-ah! I’ve stumped you!”
Diabolically did Billy flounder and gibe. He paused, expectantly, for you planted a foot, and gasped, and followed with the other; so did Hen.
Billy playfully splashed you.
“Come on!” he cried. “Come on!”
“Ouch! Quit that, will you?” you snarled, as the poignant drops stung your thin skin. “I’m comin’, ain’t I?”
Deeper, a little deeper, you went, with your piteously pleading flesh trying to recede from that repellant glacial line creeping up, inch by inch.
Billy shrieked with joy. What is misery when it has company!
“Duck!” he cackled. “Duck! ’Twon’t be cold after you’ve ducked.”
Must you? Oh, must you? Yes. You drew a long breath, shut your eyes, and desperately butted under. So, you dimly were conscious, did Hen.
Ugh! You choked; your stomach clove flat against your backbone, and in you was not space for air. Blindly you recovered, and lurched and clawed and fought for breath, while Billy rioted with wicked exultation.