Suddenly the coach’s whistle blew and the passing stopped.
“All right, fellows. Bully work-out. Great pep. Now for the showers and the tank.”
“Let’s go,” yelled the panting Buck Hart as he started for the stairs to the basement, taking off his shirt as he ran.
A wild yell followed and the rest of the sixteen candidates streamed along in his wake, undressing as they ran. Indeed by the time most of them reached the locker room they had but to peel off their trousers, unlace and kick off shoes and stockings, and they were ready for the showers.
Like a lot of porpoises they streamed inside the tiled shower room and dashed under the hissing sprays, crowding, pushing and shoving for a place under the cold streams of water so that they could close up their perspiring pores and be ready for a plunge into the warmer water of the tank.
With that horde of husky youngsters under the showers the tiled room rang with the shouts, gulps, snorts, and screams of pure delight as they splashed under the cold sprays of almost icy water. There were spills on the slippery tile floor, but that did not count for much. There were squabbles over the proprietorship of the remarkably few pieces of soap that were in use; there were water fights and wrestling matches, but none of them proved serious.
It was Buck Hart as usual who led the crowd.
“Last one into the tank is IT. Wow,” and he made a dash for the swinging door that cut off the shower room from the long tiled room in which was the swimming tank with its inviting blue-green water.
Like so many otters they went overboard and the splashes and yells would have made a stranger believe that an army was taking a plunge instead of less than a score of boys.