been reading. Stanley turned over on his back and kicked with his legs till he was a living waterspout. But even then . . . “I dreamed I was hanging over a terrifically high cliff, shouting to some one below.” You would be! thought Stanley. He could stick no more of it. He stopped splashing. “Look here, Trout,” he said, “I’m in rather a hurry this morning.”
“You’re what?” Jonathan was so surprised—or pretended to be—that he sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing.
“All I mean is,” said Stanley, “I’ve no time to—to—to fool about. I want to get this over. I’m in a hurry. I’ve work to do this morning—see?”
Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. “Pass, friend!” said the bass voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcely a ripple. . . . But curse the fellow! He’d ruined Stanley’s bathe. What an unpractical idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again, and then as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He felt cheated.
Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently moving his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell. True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to
