“Granny says, as Dicky’s the only one that can’t swim, we must all promise to look after him,” Arthur added warningly on their way to the Pond.
“I can look after myself,” Dicky remarked huffily.
“I’m only telling you what Granny said,” Arthur stated. Apparently Granny had put other responsibilities on him because he went on. “I know you swim in deep water, Rosie, because I’ve seen you, and you too Harold. But how about you Laura?”
“Well—I’ll show you,” Laura promised caustically.
“You’ll have to,” Arthur told her, “before I’ll let you go over your head.” He turned to Maida. “How about you?”
“I’m not a fast swimmer nor a strong one,” Maida declared, “but I am quite accustomed to deep water. I used to go over the side of the yacht with father every morning in the Mediterranean, and I can swim forever without getting tired out.”
“All right,” Arthur said. And then, “All in that’s going in!” he shouted suddenly as the jetty came in sight. He burst into a run and the file of children raced after him. Over into the water they went in five tempestuous dives. Only Dicky remained watching them. They came up almost simultaneously. Arthur and Harold, as a matter of natatorial compliment, threw into each other’s faces the mud and weeds they had brought up in their hands. Then they all struck for the middle of the Pond. They swam with varying degrees of speed—Arthur first as became his superior size and strength, his superior skill at all things. Curiously enough Laura, who cut through the water like a thrown knife, kept a close second to him. The others struggled behind, Maida always in the rear.
They turned over and stared into the shining sky.
“Now tell us a story Maida!” Rosie said.
Maida began obediently. “Once upon a time,” she said to the accompaniment of five pairs of hands beating the water, “there lived a little girl by the name of Rosie. She was probably the naughtiest little girl in the world—”