"Lemme go! Rex! King! Middy, old boy! Give a hand!"
"Can't," chuckled Kingdon. "Both of 'em's busy."
"You go fish," growled Midkiff. "I'd like to see you get started early in the morning for once. You're the laziest young one I ever saw."
"One!" sing-songed Red, he and the Colorado youth swinging the squalling Peewee. "Two! Three—and over!"
They chucked him, feet foremost, over the side. Peewee sank like a plummet, his nightshirt floating up around his neck.
"That shirt will strangle him," suggested Rex, with some seriousness. "He can't swim in a thing like that."
"Then why doesn't he wear pajamas, like a sane male human being?" growled Red Phillips.
"Cause his mother won't make 'em for him. And he's just come from home with a new outfit. Say, you murderers, go after him!"
Thus adjured, both Red and Cloudman went overboard, each in his own way. Red made a long, graceful dive; the Colorado youth went in like a frog.
It was a fact that some seconds passed and Peewee Hicks did not come up. Midkiff stared over the rail, with his shirt half on, growling: