Jeff Thatcher was overboard with the first of the group. Diving and fetching up half way across the tank he came up with a snort and a shake of his head to clear the water out of his eyes; then, turning, he watched to see who would be the last one in. But as he turned, a head bobbed up out of the water just in front of him, and to his surprise he saw that the swimmer was Birdie Pell.
“Hello, Thatcher,” said Pell, surprised and somewhat embarrassed to discover his chum’s sworn enemy facing him.
“Hello, yourself,” said Thatcher, “how’d you get in?”
“Shush-s-h, I sneaked it. Only baseball candidates supposed to be in this afternoon, but I felt like a swim, so I sneaked down.”
“Look out Rice doesn’t catch you,” said Jeff.
“Oh, I’ll keep under water while he’s around and he won’t be able to find me among this bunch if he should come in.”
“Duck. Here he comes now,” said Jeff, for Mr. Rice shoved his way through the swinging doors and came to the edge of the tank.
Pell submerged like a beaver and Jeff, not anxious to see him discovered, began a prodigious splashing and milling about with the rest of the fellows. Out of the tail of his eye, however, he could see Pell’s form moving under water toward the spring board float at the far end, and Jeff knew that the little Sophomore would come up under the float and stay there until Mr. Rice had gone.
But the coach did not go. Instead he stood on the edge of the tank and watched the fellows for about five minutes. Then he blew his whistle for attention and shouted: