It was a lost fragment of clapboard about four feet long, and with no house to it. Nobody could guess how it got there; but in three minutes more the clumsy flat-bottomed skiff was being slowly propelled away from the beach, out toward the deeper water of the lake.
Sime Hopkins and Barry Gilmore had reached, to judge from the remarks they made, that precise point in their aquatic practice when your common small boy 'long-shore swimming is a thing to be looked down upon, and a lake of some size, or a section of the Atlantic, was required for any fun of theirs.
The day was warm, the water as smooth as a pane of glass, and there was a faint haze over the sky. The very model of a day for a perfect swim.
The boat, too, had evidently been built for it. She was broad enough not to tip too easily if you were climbing in, and the wide seat at each end was just the arrangement for diving.
"This'll do, Sime. Pity we didn't bring an anchor."
"Water's a hundred feet deep out here. How far are we from shore?"
"Don't know. Maybe it's half a mile. Maybe it's more. Could you swim it?"
"Guess not, Barry. Perhaps I could. But I don't care to try. Not unless the boat came along. A fellow's legs might give out, or he might take a cramp."
"My legs would peg out, sure, long before I got there."
They were a very good pair for a boy of fifteen, and in a moment more they were in the air, as he sprang from the stern of the boat, and went in, capitally well, head first.