We played in the water like ducks, never taking the trouble to get dry.
One day I waded out with one of the boys, to see which of us dared go
farthest. The tide was extremely low, and we had not wet our knees when
we began to look back to see if familiar objects were still in sight. I
thought we had been wading for hours, and still the water was so shallow
and quiet. My companion was marching straight ahead, so I did the same.
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.