"Isn't she a love!" sighed Margery.
"Huh, you girls make me sick," snorted Kent. "We won't tie you in the boat. We'll bring the boat in and get you, then we'll anchor it out where it is now, and—and—I'll go get Smith's rowboat, and Friday and I'll come out and rescue you."
Margery hesitated. "Aw, come on!" urged Kent. "Don't be such a 'fraid cat. That's why us kids don't like you, you're such a silly, dressed-up doll."
The banker's daughter flushed. Though she loved the pretty clothes and though the sense of superiority to other children, carefully cultivated by her mother, was the very breath of her nostrils, she had never been quite so happy as this afternoon when grubbing on an equality with these three inferior children.
"I'm not afraid at all and I'm just as dirty as Lydia is. Go ahead with your old boat."
They tethered Patience with Kent's cord to one of the willow trees and Margery was paddled out several boat lengths from the shore and the great stone that served for anchor was dropped over. Kent took a clean dive overboard, swam ashore and disappeared along the willow path. Little Patience set up a wail.
"Baby turn too. Baby turn, too," she wept.
"I'll go stay with her till Kent comes," said Lydia, diving into the water as casually as if she were rising from a chair.
"I won't stay in this awful boat alone!" shrieked Margery.
Lydia swam steadily to the shore, then turned. Margery was standing up in the boat.