“I write no more by sea or shore,” sang Cathalina, losing her stroke and dashing them all with spray.
“Say it not,” protested Lilian. “How about themes?”
“What is the use of being so practical, Lil?” rejoined Cathalina. “Father says that poets don’t have to be consistent!”
Betty was leaning over, trailing her hand in the water. “I think I saw a shark then, or maybe a whale,” she said dreamily.
“Goosey, they don’t have ’em here,” chided Lilian.
Betty looked at her solemnly. “Don’t they? Thank you. Anyway I heard Mickey—Boathouse,—whatever his name is over there—say that there is an awful monster in this lake sometimes. It has a long neck, and head like a snake, and breathes fire, I guess, and,—”
“Don’t Betty!” cried Cathalina, “you give me the shivers and it’s too glorious this afternoon. Did Mickey say we couldn’t go out beyond the breakwater?”
“Yes; and it’s on the printed rules, too.”
“All right. Back we go, then.” Cathalina carefully turned the boat and started shoreward. “Strike up, Lil, do!”
Lilian, who had her guitar, strummed a few chords, feeling for an easy key, then led off in pathetic tones:—