He would like to know what harm his going down to the river for a quiet moonlight swim could possibly do to anybody. He would try it, at all events. Ned Sellars would be there, and Frank Peters. They didn't seem to care whether their parents liked it or not. Bert couldn't feel so, exactly; but, still, where was the sense in a boy's going to his father every time he turned round?
He was going. He had fully made up his mind to that. He went up to bed at the usual time, however, but his mother coming into his little bedroom about half an hour afterward, was surprised to find him almost hidden by blanket and quilt, though it was a warm night in August.
"Why, Bert, you'll smother. Do let me pull off some of these clothes."
But Bert held them tightly down. "I ain't cold, mother. I mean I ain't warm."
"Are you sick?"
"No'm."
"Two blankets and a quilt," laughed his mother, as she turned away. "I don't know what you're made of, Bert."
"And jacket and pants and stockings and shoes," thought Bert, as he snapped his fingers very softly under the weight of bedclothes.
The beautiful moon looked in at the little window. There had been times when Bert, gazing at her pure, pale face, had marveled that any boy could have the heart to do wrong when her soft light was shining on him; but to-night she seemed to say, "Come on, come on. I tell no tales. The night indoors is warm and stifling. The river is cool and clear. My beams are there before you. Come on, come on!"
It seemed as if the hours had never lagged so heavily. Eleven o'clock was the time agreed upon.