The Twins of Emu Plains

by Mary Grant Bruce

Billy awoke next morning earlier than usual. He fancied he had heard a step: and yet there was no sound in the house. He leaned on his elbow, and looking across towards Rex’s bed, saw that it was empty.

This was unusual, for Rex loved his bed, and, as a rule, it was hard to withdraw him from it. Billy was mildly surprised. There was another sound, inside their room, and he went to the window and peeped in. Rex, in his little coat and sandals, a towel over his arm, was just going out into the passage.

“Great Scott!” said Billy. “He’s off to bathe by himself!”

A moment’s reflection showed him that this was a proceeding that should not be allowed. He hesitated a moment over the point of calling Jean and Jo: then he decided that he could deal with it himself. He slipped on his bathing-knickers and coat, and trotted down the hill after Rex, just as the twin’s alarum-clock brought them painfully from their beds.

Ambition had been striving within Rex for four-and-twenty hours. He wanted to swim alone: he felt within himself that he could swim, if only he might try without anyone there to witness his preliminary struggles. Overnight he had made up his mind to go down alone to the river, if only he could awake early enough. He had gone to sleep urgently repeating, “I’m going to wake up at four”; he had given himself four hard knocks on the head, a plan which—so he had heard—never failed to rouse you at the time indicated by the number of knocks. And whether the fact was due to one of these charms, or to his own determination, he had certainly waked up in the early dawn.

Bathing did not seem half so tempting then as in the heat of the day, although it had been a hot night, and he had lain with only a sheet as covering. Still, his mind was made up, and it was an obstinate enough little mind; so, after a few moments’ hesitation, he got up noiselessly, and slipped away.

He ran down the hill as hard as he could, trying to get hot enough to be anxious for the cool touch of the water. But he was not very thoroughly warmed when he reached the river; and it looked lonely and dark under its overhanging trees. He flung off his sandals and coat without giving himself time to think, and ran in.

Whew-w! it was cold. At the first touch of the still water his courage almost melted. This would not do, he knew. Stooping, he splashed water over his head and face, as the twins had taught him, and then flung himself full-length in the shallows, knowing that once he was wet all over, one terror would have passed. That was better. He stood up and waded sturdily out towards the rope—just as Billy gained the bank and dived into the dressing-hut for purposes of observation.

Rex turned when he reached the rope and faced the bank from which he had come, telling himself, over and over, that if he did go under he was only within his depth. It was a comforting thought, but it needed constant repetition, or it seemed to slip away from him—so dark and unpleasant seemed the water. It was not at all like the warm, cheery pool in which they frolicked daily after dinner. There was no small effort of heroism, at length, in his sudden, clumsy dive forward.

He went under, lost his head for a moment, and came up, gasping and spluttering, all his courage gone, for a moment. Then he realized that he had not tried to swim at all—that from the first his feet had been seeking for the bottom. “Silly ass I am!” he remarked—and dived forward again, kicking vigorously.