There was a splash, and he disappeared from sight to reappear a second later, with streaming hair and dripping face.
“How is it?” chorussed the big boys, who were already pulling off their clothes, as they saw that neither barb-wire nor osage-orange brush festooned the swimmer.
“Bully!” ecstatically, and he dived dexterously into the crown of his upturned hat, which a puff of wind had sent dancing gayly down-stream.
CHAPTER XIII
SAY!” Clarence blurted out, “there's going to be a strike!”
Oakley glanced up from his writing.
“What's that you are telling me, Clarence?”
“There's going to be a strike, Mr. Oakley.”