“He daren’t.”
“He’s afraid.”
“I say, don’t you jump in: you’ll get wet.”
“I say, young ’un, don’t. You learn to swim in the washing-tub in warm water.”
“Don’t you take any notice of them,” cried Day. “You jump in. Join your hands above your head and go in with a regular good leap. They can’t.”
I felt desperate. The water seemed to drive me back, but all the time the jeers of the boys pricked and stirred me on, and at last, obeying Day to the letter, I placed my hands above my head, diver fashion, and took the plunge down into the darkness of the chilly water, which seemed to roar and thunder in my ears, and then, before I knew where I was, I found myself standing up, spitting, half blind, with a curious burning sensation in my nostrils, and a horrible catching of the breath.
“Hooray!” shouted Day. “You’ve beat them hollow. Now you’re out of your misery and can show them. I bet a penny you learn to swim before they can.”
This was encouraging, and I began to feel a warm glow of satisfaction in my veins.
“Catch hold of my hand,” cried Day.
“No, no,” I cried excitedly. “You’ll take me where it’s deep.”