“Look!” said Mark. “Don’t you know that’s a ‘sign.’ Savages read ‘signs,’ and those birds mean that there are heaps of fish.”
“Yes, but we ought to have a proper language.”
“Kalabala-blong!” said Mark.
“Hududu-blow-fluz!” replied Bevis, taking a header from the top of the rail on which he had been sitting, and on which he just contrived to balance himself a moment without falling backwards.
“Umplumum!” he shouted, coming up again.
“Ikiklikah,” and Mark disappeared.
“Noklikah,” said Bevis, giving him a shove under as he came up to breathe.
“That’s not fair,” said Mark, scrambling up.
Bevis was swimming, and Mark seized his feet. More splashing and shouting, and the rocks resound. The echo of their voices returned from the quarry and the high bank under the firs.
They raced presently down to the elms along the sweet soft turf, sprinkling the dry grass with the sparkling drops from their limbs, and the sunlight shone on their white shoulders. The wind blew and stroked their gleaming backs. They rolled and tumbled on the grass, and the earth was under them. From the water to the sun and the wind and the grass.