“Cold!” cried the others; “it’s lovely. Here you, Dennison, come in.”
“I can’t swim,” I said, feeling a curious shrinking on the one side, quite a temptation on the other.
“And you never will,” cried George Day, “if you don’t try. It’s so easy: look here!”
He swam a few yards with the greatest ease, turned round, and began swimming slowly back.
“Go on—faster,” I cried, for I was interested.
“Can’t,” he cried, “tide runs so sharp. If I didn’t mind I should be swept right away. Come in. I’ll soon teach you.”
I shook my head.
“Oh, you are a fellow. Come on.”
“No, I sha’n’t bathe,” I said in a doubtful tone.
“Oh, here’s a chap! I say isn’t he a one! Always tied to his mother’s apron-string: can’t play cricket, or rounders, or football, and can’t swim. I say, isn’t he a molly.”