“You’ve said something,” agreed Burd. “Shoot! I am ready, Gridley.”
“Huh!” exclaimed his chum. “You have even forgotten your Spanish War history.”
“Shucks! They change history so fast now you don’t more than learn one phase than you have to forget it and learn some other fellow’s ‘hindsight’ of important events. The only way to get history straight,” declared the philosophical Burd, “is to be Johnny-on-the-spot and see things happen.”
“Now!” shouted Darry to the girls.
The four splashed in, the girls starting with a breast stroke and the boys having to run for some distance until the sea was deep enough to enable them to swim. The water beyond the ruffle of surf was almost calm. At least, the waves did not break, but heaved in, in smooth rollers. As Amy had said: The sea was taking deep-breathing exercises.
Just now, however, she was not making jokes. The two girls were doing their best to win the race. Darry was a long, rangy fellow, and his over-hand stroke was wonderful. Burd Alling—“tubby” as he was—was an excellent swimmer. The girls started with a dash, however, and they kept up their speed for some rods before either felt any fatigue.
The diving raft was a long distance out from the beach, because the sandy bottom here sloped very gradually. This part of the island was ideal for swimming and bathing. If it was finally proved that the old Padriac Haney estate belonged to little Henrietta, she would control the longest strip of beach on the island.
Amy flashed a glance over her shoulder to see how close they were pursued, and almost lost stroke.
“Come on!” panted Jessie. “Don’t let them beat you.”
“Ain’t—go-ing—to,” gasped her chum, in four short breaths.