Wilfred watched them for a few minutes, utterly sick at heart.
“This is only temporary for August,” Charlie called down from the roof. “Hand us up that other stick, will you?”
“I’ve got something to tell you,” said Wilfred, “and I won’t blame you for getting mad. I can’t go in the contest.”
Connie looked at him amused. “You joke with such a straight face——”
“I mean it,” said Wilfred earnestly; “I can’t do it. There’s no use asking me why. I can’t do it and you’ve got a right to call me a quitter—or anything you want.”
“What do you mean?” Connie asked, caught by his earnest tone. Charlie O’Conner slid down off the roof and stood, half-laughing, half-apprehensive.
“I mean just what I said,” said Wilfred soberly. “I found out I can’t swim in the contest. You’ll have to let one of the other fellows do it; Bert McAlpin——”
“Cut it out about Bert McAlpin,” said Connie. “What’s the idea, anyway? Are you kidding us?”
“No, I’m not,” Wilfred said earnestly. “I can’t do it and I mean it and you can call me a quitter.”
“If you mean it, I’ll call you something more than a quitter,” said Connie testily; “I’ll call you a——”