"Well, the air seems warm enough. After all, the air and the sun are about the best part of a swim. Do you want to go in?"
Cope rose, walked to the edge of the water, and put in a finger or two.
"Well, it might be warmer; but, as I say…."
"We could try a ten-minute dip. That would get us to our dinner in good time and in good trim."
"All right. Let's, then."
"Only, you'll have to do most of the swimming," said Randolph. "My few small feats are all accomplished pretty close to shore."
"Never mind. Company's the thing. A fellow finds it rather slow, going in alone."
Cope whisked off his clothes with incredible rapidity and piled them—or flung them—under the basswoods: the suddenly resuscitated technique of the small-town lad who could take avail of any pond or any quiet stretch of river on the spur of the moment. He waded in quickly up to his waist, and then took an intrepid header. His lithe young legs and arms threw themselves about hither and yon. After a moment or two he got on his feet and made his way back across a yard of fine shingle to the sand itself. He was sputtering and gasping, and the long yellow hair, which usually lay in a flat clean sweep from forehead to occiput, now sprawled in a grotesque pattern round his temples.
"B-r-r! It is cold, sure enough. But jump in. The air will be all right. I'll be back with you in a moment."
Randolph advanced to the edge, and felt in turn. It was cold. But he meant to manage it here, just as he had managed with the sand-slopes.
Two heads bobbed on the water where but one had bobbed before.
Ceremonially, at least, the rite was complete.