"Never-hurts-mine, never-hurts-mine," answered the frog, jumping into the pond and taking a few strokes.
"But you see my clothes are not like yours," explained Mr. Thompson.
"Look-just-the-same, look-just-the-same," answered the frog.
Mr. Thompson looked down at his vest; the white had changed to lemon-color; his sober black pantaloons were metamorphosed into natty snuff-colored knee-breeches; and worst of all, his alpaca duster had become a tight green cut-away coat.
"If Angelina should see me in this rig, what would she say?" murmured Mr. Thompson, in despairing tones.
"Better-come-in, better-come-in," croaked the frog, with something like a smile on his broad mouth.
"I guess I will," thought Mr. Thompson, and plunging head first he dived into the pond. He soon came up with his mouth full of mud. That, of course, annoyed him, but he was more interested in how the mud got into his mouth, for, diving as he did, he should have struck the top of his head. He put his hand up to feel. Horror! instead of touching the top of his head, he thrust his hand into his mouth. He felt again; his mouth was on the top of his head. He climbed up on a lily pad, and looked at his reflection in the water. He could hardly believe his eyes; there was no Mr. Thompson; only a great green and yellow frog. The other frog was sitting not far off, watching him with an air of amusement.
"There are some boys on the bridge, and they are going to throw stones at us," whispered the old frog. Mr. Thompson forgot his sudden change of appearance, and assuming his most pompous manner, he shouted, "You-mustn't-do-that, you-mustn't-do-that."
"You old fool," bellowed the old frog, as he plunged into the water.
Mr. Thompson thought discretion to be the better part of valor, and followed.