“But wasn’t the water too cold?” she questioned anxiously.
“Uh-uh,” you signified, steadily eating.
“It must have been cold,” insisted mother. “Why, the sun hasn’t had time to warm it yet. I should think you’d have frozen to death!”
“It was dandy. Makes you feel fine,” you assured boldly. “Billy Lunt dared Hen and me, and—”
“I suppose if some other boy dared you to jump off the top of the church steeple you’d do it, then,” stated mother severely.
“He’d have to do it first,” you explained with a giggle.
“Well, I should think you’d have frozen,” murmured mother, with an appealing glance at father.
Perhaps she would have frozen—being, like “teacher,” of a sex unfortunate. But not you—nay, not mighty, dauntless, much-experienced you, with your ten long years backing you up. Huh!
Not always was swimming thus a task; the embrace of the creek, deceitful and inhospitable.