"It's never so cold the second time," declared Cope encouragingly. "One dip doesn't make a swim, any more than one swallow—"
He flashed his soles in the sunlight and was once again immersed, gulping, in a maelstrom of his own making.
"Twice, to oblige you," said Randolph. "But no more. I'll leave the rest to the sun and the air."
Cope, out again, ran up and down the sands for a hundred feet or so. "I know something better than this," he declared presently. He threw himself down and rolled himself in the abundance of fine, dry, clean sand.
"An arenaceous ulster—speaking etymologically," he said. He came back to the clump of basswoods near which Randolph was sitting on a short length of drift wood, with his back to the sun, and sat down beside him.
"You're welcome to it," said Randolph, laughing; "but how are you going to get it off? By another dip? Certainly not by the slow process of time. We have some moments to spare, but hardly enough for that. Meanwhile…."
He picked up a handful of sand and applied it to a bare shoulder-blade which somehow had failed to get its share of protection.
"Thanks," said Cope: "the right thing done for Polynices. Yes, I shall take one final dip and dry myself on my handkerchief."
"I shall dry by the other process, and so shall be able to spare you mine."
"How much time have we yet?"