"That's a fact, Rob," said his mother. "You'll have to go to bed while these dry."
"Oh, dear!" said Rob; "that's too bad!" And he walked very disconsolately toward the house. Zeb was just riding off, with two empty sacks hanging from his saddle pommel.
"Zeb," called Rob; "I tumbled in the brook; and I've got to go to bed till my clothes are dry."
"Don't you do no such a thing," cried Zeb; "you jest walk round a leetle lively, and your clothes'll be dry afore ye know it. Water don't wet ye much in this country."
"Come, now, Zeb," said the Deacon, "let's draw a line somewhere! That's a little too big a story. I can believe ye about the snow's not making mud, because I've seen these hailstones just melt away into nothin' in half an hour; but when it comes to water's not wettin', I can't go that."
"Well, you just feel of me now!" shouted Rob; "I'm half dry already!"
The Deacon and Mrs. March both felt Rob's arms and shoulders.
"Pon my word, they ain't so very wet," said the Deacon; "was it only just now you tumbled in?"
"Not five minutes ago," said Mrs. March.
"It is certainly the queerest thing I ever saw," she continued, feeling Rob from his shoulders to his ankles: "he is really, as he says, half dry. I'll try Zeb's advice. Rob, run up and down the road as hard as you can for ten minutes; don't you stand still at all."