“What’s the matter with you doing your own swimming?” asked Betty, glancing up at Clarice through a tangle of brown hair.
“Can’t. Don’t know enough about it,” replied the girl nonchalantly, swinging one foot. “I hate it.”
“Do you mean to say that you’ve been in gym class all this year, and don’t know yet how to swim?” inquired Katharine bluntly.
“Guilty!”
“I should think Professor Wilson would have killed you off long ago,” remarked Frances. “He’s such an irritable creature.”
“Yes,” agreed Clarice, “and also so near-sighted that he doesn’t know half the time who’s in the pool and who’s out of it. Haven’t you noticed how dependent he is on his class books?”
“Then can’t you take a chance on his being too near-sighted to see that you can’t swim?” asked Betty.
“No such luck! All women may look alike to him, but not all strokes in swimming.”
“How did you manage all term?” inquired Patricia, shaking her yellow mop of hair vigorously.
“Oh, he was always hollering at me.”