reering of figures, stark naked, through
the rushes and trees! What larks and pranks!

And then the little boys would dress. A simple process, but more
difficult by far than the other, for the trousers would stick to the
wet feet--no boy would dream of a towel, nor dare to be guilty of such
a piece of "stuck-upness"--and the shirt would get wrong side out, or
would bundle round the neck, or would cling to the wet shoulders till
they had to get on their knees almost to squirm into it. But that over,
all was over. The brace, or if the buttons were still there, the braces
were easily jerked up on the shoulders, and there you were. Coats,
boots, and stockings were superfluous, collars and ties utterly
despised.

Then the little ones would gather on the grassy bank to watch the big
ones get out, which was a process worth watching.

"Well, I'm going out, boys," one would say.

"Oh, pshaw! let's have another plunge."

"All right. But it's the last, though."

Then a long stream of naked figures would scramble up the bank and rush
for the last place. "First out, last in," was the rule, for the boys
would much rather jump on some one else than be jumped on themselves.
After the long line of naked figures had vanished into the boiling
water, one would be seen quietly stealing out and up the bank kicking
his feet clean as he stepped off the projecting root onto the grass,
when, plunk! a mud ball caught him, and back he must come. It took them
full two hours to escape clean from the water, and woe betide the boy
last out. On all sides stood boys, little and big, with mud balls ready
to fling, till, out of sheer pity, he would be allowed to come forth
clean. Then, when all were dressed, and blue and shivering--for two
amphibious hours, even on a July day, make one blue--more games would
begin, leap-frog, or tag, or jumping, or climbing trees, till they were
warm enough to set out for home.

It was as the little ones were playing tag that Hughie came to grief.
He was easily king of his company and led the game. Quick as a weasel,
swift and wary, he was always the last to be caught. Around the trees,
and out and in among the big boys, he led the chase, much to Tom Finch's
disgust, who had not forgotten the spelling-match incident. Not that he
cared for the defeat, but he still felt the bite in the master's final
words, and he carried a grudge against the boy who had been the occasion
of his humiliation.

"Keep off!" he cried,