Suddenly a swell lifted us almost off our feet, and we clutched at each
other simultaneously. There was a lesser swell, and little waves began
to run, and a sigh went up from the sea. The tide was turning--perhaps a
storm was on the way--and we were miles, dreadful miles from dry land.
Boy and girl turned without a word, four determined bare legs ploughing
through the water, four scared eyes straining toward the land. Through
an eternity of toil and fear they kept dumbly on, death at their heels,
pride still in their hearts. At last they reach high-water mark--six
hours before full tide.
Each has seen the other afraid, and each rejoices in the knowledge. But
only the boy is sure of his tongue.
"You was scared, warn't you?" he taunts.
The girl understands so much, and is able to reply:
"You can schwimmen, I not."
"Betcher life I can schwimmen," the other mocks.
And the girl walks off, angry and hurt.
"An' I can walk on my hands," the tormentor calls after her. "Say, you
greenhorn, why don'tcher look?"
The girl keeps straight on, vowing that she would never walk with that
rude boy again, neither by land nor sea, not even though the waters
should part at his bidding.
I am forgetting the more serious business which had brought us to
Crescent Beach. While we children disported ourselves like mermaids and
mermen in the surf, our respective fathers dispensed cold lemonade, hot
peanuts, and pink popcorn, and piled up our respective fortunes, nickel
by nickel, penny by penny.
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