“It sounds almost impossible.”
“Of course, he doesn’t get the sounds very loud. But he hears. He can go off in his automobile and take it all with him. Or out in a boat––Say, it would be great sport to have one in our canoe.”
“You be careful how you get into it yourself and never mind the radio,” cried Jessie, as Amy displayed her usual carelessness in embarking.
“I haven’t got on a thing that water will hurt,” declared the other girl.
“That’s all right. But everything you have on can get wet. Do be still. You are like an eel!” cried Jessie.
“Don’t!” rejoined Amy with a shudder. “I loathe eels. They are so squirmy. One wound right around my arm once when I was fishing down the lake, and I never have forgotten the slimy feel of it.”
Jessie laughed. “We won’t catch eels to-day. I never thought about fishing, anyway. I want strawberries, if there are any down there.”
Lake Monenset was not a wide body of water. Burd Alling had said it was only as wide as “two hoots and a holler.” Burd had spent a few weeks in the Tennessee Mountains once, and had brought 60 back some rather queer expressions that the natives there use.
Lake Monenset was several miles long. The head of it was in Roselawn at one side of the Norwood estate and almost touched the edge of Bonwit Boulevard. It was bordered by trees for almost its entire length on both sides, and it was shaped like a enormous, elongated comma.
The gardener at the Norwood estate and his helper looked after the boathouse and the canoes. The Norwood’s was not the only small estate that verged upon the lake, but like everything else about the Norwood place, its lake front was artistically adorned.