“Rather. Only I don’t know that I’ll ever go by myself.”
“You’ll swim by yourself just as soon as you believe that you can,” stated Jo. “You know all the movements now—that comes of practising them on land. It’s only a question of believing you can swim—and there you’ll be!”
“I’m an awful hen in the water, you know, Jo.”
“Now, that’s the very thing you’re not to believe,” Jo said, positively. “The fellow who thinks he’s a hen in anything will act like a hen—and I simply decline to teach hens! But we aren’t going to hurry you, old chap: we’ll have a few days of practising like this before we let you go alone, and then it will only be inside the rope, and facing towards the bank, so that you’ll know you’ve only to put your feet down and bob your head up, if you go under. So don’t worry.”
“You’re an awful brick, Jo!” said the small boy gratefully.
“I’m not—I’m a high-class instructor!” said Jo, laughing. “Come on, and we’ll have some more tennis.”
They practised tennis and swimming alternately during that day and the next, Jo and Jean taking turns in supporting their kicking pupil. On the way up to the house, and at intervals throughout the day, he was to be seen vigorously employing the breast-stroke; he was even discovered face downwards across a log in the paddock, practising with his feet as well as his arms, and gasping heavily.
“There’s nothing in it, you know,” he said in his old-fashioned manner to Billy. “Any ass could do the movements. Then why can’t I swim?”
“But p’rhaps you can,” said Billy, grinning. “Jo says you can do anything if you only believe you can. You’d better practise believing, instead of breast-stroke!”
“I believe I’d better,” said Rex solemnly.