“Yes; all right. I’ll come out there. Give me a hand.”
Dexter swam to the muddy overhanging bank, and seized the hand which Bob extended toward him.
“Now then, shall I duck yer!” said Bob, who had lain down on the wet grass to extend his hand to the swimmer.
“No, no, Bob, don’t. That would be cowardly,” cried Dexter. “Help me to get out my clothes without letting in the wet. It is so cold.”
“But you swam over,” said Bob sneeringly.
“Yes; but you don’t know how chilly it makes you feel. Mind the clothes.”
Bob did mind, and the next minute Dexter and the barge of dry clothes were upon the grass together.
“Oh, isn’t it cold?” said Dexter, with his teeth chattering.
“Cold? no. Not a bit,” said Bob. “Here, whatcher going to do!”
“Do? Dress myself. Here, give me my shirt. Oh, don’t I wish I had a towel!”