The three
gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of
the nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had
given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious
heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the
third young in spirit--for some reason or other a change came
over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began
to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little
deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared
they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He
smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked
them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.
"Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and they raced in the
sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and
had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a
memorable sight.
They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at
being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed
to get clean.
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