"I don't believe they played fair!" said the small boy gloomily.
"Don't you say that!" said his father sharply, and then relented at the amazed face.
"It doesn't do, old man," Tom continued. "When a fellow is beaten, he takes his gruel like a decent chap; and he doesn't abuse the other fellow. Do you imagine, too, that your old city-bred father had any chance against men who have been on the lakes all their lives?"
"Well, you used to be in the eight at Trinity College," said Garth sadly.
"When I was young. And pulling in a racing-shell isn't the same as in one of these tubs—as you will find out later on. Cheer up, old chap; there's a small boy's foot-race coming off, I hear."
There was, and Garth, being a long-legged person of great fleetness, won it: and was immediately stricken with remorse at having beaten little Joe, to whom he apologized for the year's seniority that gave him the victory. Joe was philosophic, and forgot races and defeat altogether when Garth suggested that they should adjourn to one of the stores and find out what sweets those emporiums stocked. They reappeared later with bulging cheeks and impeded utterance, and took up positions as spectators with renewed joy.
Two sides were playing water-polo—scrambling in ten feet of water for a gaily-painted bladder, which ducked and bobbed in the waves like a live thing. It was an exciting game, and caused helpless mirth among the spectators, when a confident player, racing with the ball for goal, found his leg grasped by an opponent who had dived below him, and was dragged, spluttering and furious, under the surface; or when the assailant, rising triumphant with the ball, felt another leap bodily upon him, so that they disappeared together, while the ball rocked gaily away. Luck and pluck counted almost equally in it, and the victory was apt to go to those who had swallowed least salt water. Then came a race for men mounted astride on barrels, who propelled them through the water with their hands and feet; which was easy enough when the movements were careful, but the excitement of the finish caused the riders to paddle frantically, whereupon their steeds rolled over promptly, and there were wild scenes of catching and remounting, while a boy, who had prudently gone slowly, paddled in alone as the winner—unnoticed by the other competitors, who continued to scramble and tussle for their slippery steeds, filling the air with the tumult of their remarks, while the spectators rocked with laughter. Finally it was brought home to them, through the gentle medium of a megaphone, that the race had been over for some time, when they dispersed, much crestfallen. The crowd, very happy, sought further diversion.
"You've got to go in for the umbrella race, 'Possum," said Tom.
"Not me!" said 'Possum firmly.
"You must," Tom rejoined. "I've borrowed the lightest little dinghy you ever saw for you, and the biggest umbrella. It belongs to old Pa Smith, and it's like a tent."