"Well, I just can," Molly asserted proudly; "I can swim two hundred yards. If I kick off my slippers, this dress won't be much heavier than a bathing suit, either. But, of course, father says I must do my sailing where it isn't deep."
"Then we'd better edge the shore to that bay by Magoon's boathouse; there's lots of room for tacking, and it's all shallow water."
Molly stared suspiciously at the stretch of lake he had pointed out. "How do you know?"
"Look at the color of the water. Don't you notice that it is a whole lot lighter than the rest of the lake? And did you ever see anybody fishing there? And did you ever notice how that steamer from the other end of the lake never puts in, even when it wants to land somebody at Magoon's pier?"
Molly nodded slowly. "But if it's so shallow, why isn't it a swimming-hole?"
For a moment, Rodman had no answer. "I don't know—Yes, I do, too. Look at the beach. If you've ever walked along it, you know there's the finest collection of sharp stones on that beach you ever saw, and it must be the same way under water. You couldn't go in swimming there unless you wore hobnailed shoes."
"You're right," Molly admitted, "though I never put things together like that. Of course, then, that's the place for us to go."
While Rodman steadied the canoe, she climbed in gingerly, holding to the pier with one hand until he was also aboard.
"Wait just a minute before you push off," she warned. "Somebody's coming."
"It's Horace Hibbs," he said, continuing to look toward the bow of the boat and away from the pier.