“Tails?” gasped Gordon, wringing out his hair.
“No—trails,” said Brownell; “didn’t you know you can follow a fish’s trail?”
Gordon grinned.
“Sure,” said Atwell, always to the fore when there was any jollying afoot; “that is, some fishes’; they say it’s almost impossible to follow a shark’s trail.”
“Stow that, Atwell,” said the Hyenas’ corporal. Then, turning to Gordon, “Better shut your eyes when you go under; guess you’re used to surf bathing, hey? Well, that’s the reason. The eyes are used to salt water—it doesn’t hurt them. Don’t you know the secretions of the eye are salty? Tears never hurt you, did they?”
This was plausible enough, but seeing that it was a Hyena who spoke, Gordon was on his guard.
“He never sheds tears,” called Harry, who was sitting astride the diving board. “Come on up and have a dive.”
Soon they were launching themselves, one after another, from the height of twenty feet into the lake. Brownell had the stiff dive to perfection, his straight body turning so as to bring his head down into the water like an arrow. Atwell did the “drop” to the admiration of all, falling limp and lifeless, till he almost reached the water, then straightening out like magic. The clown element was furnished by Gordon, who came up each time choking and sputtering, but with a grin always on his face. None of his calculations for reaching the water panned out, but he managed to get there each time in some fashion.
“What do you call that one?” one of the boys asked him.
“That’s the celebrated roly-poly tumble, I guess,” volunteered Brownell. “Here’s a good one.” He sprang sideways, maintaining the position till he almost reached the water, then swerved about.