“Going to have a dip?”
“Yes.”
“Hope you’ll like it. Don’t ketch me at it.”
His face was only dimly seen reflecting the light of the fire; but recalling what he had seen, Nic could not help feeling that the stock man did not use water much for outward application.
Half-way to the hole he met the black, who said something incomprehensible, to which Nic answered with “good morning,” and hurried on to the bank, down in the hollow along which the river ran.
There was a thin, whitish mist just visible over the water, which looked horribly black and cold, making the boy feel as if he would have given anything to evade the morning duty.
“Why not shirk it?” he said to himself. “I might wash my face and hands, and go back.”
Hurrying a dozen yards or so to where the bank was lower and the water not above eight or ten inches beneath, he prepared for a simple wash, and laid his towel on a bush; but his conscience attacked him, and, setting his teeth hard, he tore off jacket and vest in a way that was nothing less than vicious. These he placed on the bush which acted for a chair back, while the morning air struck chill to the bare skin.
“It’s horrid,” he thought,—“horrid. How can one go on like this?”
Ugh! how cold the black water looked in that grey dawn, for there was no sign of the sun, the stars being still faintly visible, and to keep his teeth from chattering Nic set them so hard that they began to ache.