It was an unfortunate suggestion. Clara gulped. But she was game. The prestige of the Penguins, the VanSittarts—one might say the whole Social Register—was in her hands. She mumbled, "I'm a' right," and slid with a smothered moan into the water.
Mr. and Mrs. Cooper waved dutifully to Janet. In her white cap and bathing suit she looked like a pet white mouse in charge of a dark and aggressive field mouse. Both parents had the same thought, with one small but important variation: "If he (she) had made a decent home for the poor child, she might have amounted to something."
"How's the little old complex?" Pip-Emma asked.
"I—I don't know, Pip. I think it's all right."
"Don't think about it. You ain't got it, see? So you're going to win. 'Cause you swim better than any of 'em. You just got to know it, and you'll be fine."
"Honest, Pip-Emma?"
"Honest."
From the water Janet looked up with adoration in her eyes. "I'll try."
"Sure. I got my shirt on you, kid."
Janet paddled to the starting line. It was true that she swam better than the others. She'd learned all the strokes from the best teachers. But it hadn't seemed to help. Everyone knew that anyone could beat Janet Cooper. Now Pip-Emma believed that she was going to win. She'd put her shirt on her. Janet watched the flag. She kept her heart steady, saying to herself, "Pip-Emma's shirt—Pip-Emma's shirt—"