“Oh, just look at that toad with a green head, down in the water!” observed Winnie.
They paddled on a little ways in silence.
“What makes your cheeks so red?” asked Gypsy.
“I guess it’s scarlet fever, or maybe it’s appleplexy, you know.”
“Oh!”
Just then Winnie gave a little scream.
“Look here—Gyp.! The boat’s goin’clock down. I don’t want to go very much. I saw another toad down there.”
“I declare!” said Gypsy, “we’re going to be swamped, as true as you live! It isn’t strong enough to bear two,—sit still, Winnie. Perhaps we’ll get ashore.”
But no sooner had she spoken the words than the water washed up about her ankles, and Winnie’s end of the raft went under. The next she knew, they were both floundering in the water.
It chanced to be about three feet and a half deep, very cold, and somewhat slimy. Gypsy had a strong impression that a frog jumped into her neck when she plunged, head first, into the deep mud at the bottom. After a little splashing and gasping, she regained her feet, and stood up to her elbows in the water. But what she could do, Winnie could not. He had sunk in the soft mud, and even if he had had the courage to stand up straight, the water would have been above his head. But it had never occurred to him to do otherwise than lie gasping and flat on the bottom, where he was drowning as fast as he possibly could.