“Maybe George can get a place. He’s not a bad swimmer, you know.”
“I know he isn’t, but you’re just as good yourself.”
“The trouble is we’ve never seen these other fellows swim and we have no idea whether they’re any good or not.”
“Well, if we do our best we shan’t have any reason to kick, I guess,” laughed Grant.
He was far and away the best swimmer of the four Go Ahead boys, and so often had he proved his superiority over them that it was now taken for granted. He was the only one who had mastered the crawl stroke. He knew it so well that it was almost second nature to him now, but to his three companions it still remained a mystery. That it is not an easy thing to acquire will be vouched for by any one who has attempted it. Fred was a wretched swimmer and knew perfectly well that he stood no chance in the race; he entered merely because he did not wish to miss anything. John and George were about on a par, both of them good average performers, but nothing more.
“All ready?” shouted Mr. Maxwell through his megaphone.
“Everybody ready?” asked Thomas.
Every one said he was and Thomas waved his hand to the judge. All eyes were fixed upon the figure standing on the dock, his right arm upraised with the pistol in his hand.
They had not long to wait. A flash and then the sharp report of the revolver, and almost together eight gleaming white bodies hit the water. Fred was the one exception; his position had been next to George and when the signal for the start was given he had been a trifle slow in diving.
A mad scramble ensued the moment all the contestants were in the water together and there was much splashing and confusion. Fred was behind the others and consequently bore the brunt of the whole mixup. He had not taken two strokes when George, who was ahead of him, struck him violently in the stomach with his foot.