"Done like old salts," laughed Sam. "Off with shoes and stockings, fellows; we'll have to wade."
In a few minutes they stood on shore. Then all took seats on a convenient rock.
Clouds of dazzling whiteness glistened against the deep blue sky, shadows flitted across the surface of the lake and over the rugged crags above, while now and then a cool, pleasant breeze blew strongly in their faces.
They were in a delightful cove. A group of willows on the opposite side mirrored themselves in the clear water; pond-lilies and aquatic growth bobbed gently on the listless current.
"This is where Dave would enjoy himself," observed Sam. "Listen to the birds—say, look at that bit of blue sky," and Sam imitated the "poet's" tones so well that Tom burst out laughing.
"Can he really paint and write poetry?" asked Phil Levins.
"Oh, Chub can do anything," replied Sam, with conviction. "He's a dandy. But here, Tommy, get off your duds. If you don't look out, you won't be able to swim any better than Fenton can ride."
"Oh, suffering catfish," said Tom, flippantly.
The boys quickly donned their bathing suits, and walked along the shelving beach to the end of the cove.
"Oh, but the water's cold. Hold on there, Sam Randall, don't push."