“Sure!” answered Rick.
They were over the fence in a scramble and bound. Ruddy following in a magnificent clean leap, and, a few minutes later the lads, half a dozen of them, were hurrying toward the inlet where the best swimming was to be had, away from the pounding surf of the salty sea.
With the prospect of invigorating sport ahead of them, in the water, Chot and Rick forgot, for a time, the incidents of the last half hour—the unfounded fear of harm to Ruddy and the tossing over the fence of the mysterious message—something like the rattle-snake skin of powder and arrows, that, in Colonial days, was thrown into the blockhouse of the early settlers to indicate that the Indians intended to open war again.
“Last one in’s a rotten egg!”
“Whoopee—that doesn’t mean me!”
“No fair goin’ in with your clothes on!”
“That’s right—every fellow’s got to put on trunks!”
These shouts, and this decision, rendered while running at full speed, brought the lads and the dog to the sandy beach of the inlet, where, in a secluded spot, the lads quickly undressed and slipped on old trunks—some donned parts of bathing suits and others sections of cut-down trousers.
“I’m no egg!” declared Rick, as he dived in, disappearing beneath the blue, salt water.
“Nor I,” added Chot, as he bubbled down beside his chum, while Ruddy splashed and barked along the shore edge in a frantic ecstasy of delight and the other boys, eager to escape the laggard designation, followed.