final garments which might have served as a bathing-suit slipped down over her feet, and Margery stepped forth, a skinny, defiant little Venus, challenging the world to look if it dare. It was a most embarrassing moment for the little boys. Their faces, bobbing about nervously on the surface of the water, blushed violently, and their jeers dwindled down to the merest quavers.

Her independence of custom and opinion thus emphatically established, Margery lost no time in entering the water. Sitting gingerly on the muddy bank, she slid forward one foot, then the other. Ugh! The bottom of the pond was soft and slimy, and squashed up between her toes like worms. For the first time a dreadful misgiving came over her. What if, after all, swimming were not the delightful pastime it was cracked up to be! However, there was no turning back now.

Sitting in the water, she propelled herself forward with her hands, slowly and cautiously. The little boys looked on in marked though unexpressed disapproval. Margery was putting them into a horribly awkward position—there was no doubt about that. They didn't like it, either. But in spite of themselves they were beginning to feel a certain admiration for her pluck. It was almost a pity she was a girl.

"Look out, Margery!" It was Tommy Grayson who gave the friendly warning. "They's a tin can over there."

Margery shifted her direction, and soon reached deeper water, where she was able to stand up without shocking the sensibilities of any one. The little boys were still some distance from her. The water, muddy beyond all chance of transparency, came up to their chests. To them, however, this was not enough. The excessive modesty of eight or nine made them keep even the white of their angular little shoulders primly covered.

Now, human nature can not be expected to retain forever that freshness of surprise which it feels over every new experience in life. Time, philosophy tells us, accustoms man to almost anything. It does the same for small boys. Beyond question it was enough to take the wind out of any one to see a girl coolly strip and come in swimming quite as though she were a boy, with all a boy's peculiar rights and privileges. But, astonishing as that might be, it was after all no reason for standing there all day like sticks in the mud when you might just as well be having a good time.

Margery, who was also standing like a stick, felt as bored as they. With nothing to do but gently bounce with the slight lap-lap of the water, she found herself wondering more and more just where the fun of swimming came in.

She watched with envy the small beginnings that betokened in the boys a return to the serious play of life. Charley Burns gave Freddy Larkin an unexpected ducking. Freddy came up spluttering and blowing, but with a handful of slimy mud which he plastered over Charley's white head. Then a splash fight became general. Every one splashed water into every one else's face. Margery noted with interest the peculiar downward stroke of the flat hand which brought about the finest results. She added her shouts to the boys', and longed to add some splashes likewise.

Now, the progress of a splash fight is thus: At first there are no sides—every man's splash is against every man's; but the splashes of all turn immediately against him who shows first signs of defeat; and he, the victim, may then use any means whatever to protect himself.

Eddie Grote was the victim this time. When the deluge became choking, he turned his back, ducked, and then let fly in the general direction of the allied forces two slimy handfuls of mud. In the excitement of the game the boys had clean forgot the immodesty of bare shoulders, and had even broken away from their original close grouping until, to all appearances, Margery was one of them. So it happened that, when Freddy Larkin dodged aside, one handful of the watery mud caught Margery square on the head and splattered down over her face and ears.

"Aw, see what you done, Eddie Grote!" Tommy Grayson shouted indignantly. "You went and throwed mud on Margery's hair ribbon! Ain't you got no sense?"

In the pause that followed, four little boys reviled the fifth with various forms of, "Aw, what'd you do that for?" And the fifth stood still in awkward consternation, the mud still dripping from his guilty hand.

For a moment Margery, too, was concerned, but only for a moment. When, under any circumstances, one's world is coming to an end within a few hours at furthest, a hair ribbon more or less matters very little. Moreover, it suddenly flashed upon Margery that here was a chance to make those few remaining hours more golden and at the same time gratify her soul with a trial at that masterly downward stroke of the flat hand. So before Eddie Grote had time to close his astonished mouth, she filled it with a mighty splash of water. Then, while Eddie choked and spluttered, too surprised to defend himself, she sent another well-aimed splash and another, until the gasping Eddie was forced to turn and flee. Not even then did Margery stop, but, following up her advantage, she drove him on and on toward shore.

In their ecstasy at the spectacle, the remaining boys leaped up and down in the water like happy little trout, clapping their hands and shouting:

"Hurrah for Margery!"

"Give it to him, Margery!"

"I bet on Margery!"

"What's the matter with Margery?"

Eddie Grote was in a tight place. All woman's rights to the contrary, in a struggle of the sexes a man has to show the woman some consideration or fly in the face of public opinion. Eddie Grote, although hard pressed, realized that public opinion would not in this instance stand for what, ordinarily, would be his modus operandi, namely, to fling mud over his shoulder. If he could but gain a moment's time thus, he might make a dash for the deeper water. But he could not, and the other little boys, as they saw his growing predicament, raised shriller, louder shouts of joy:

"That's right, Margery! Chase him out of the water! Chase him out!"

"Oh, Eddie Grote, ain't you ashamed? And before a girl, too! Oh! Oh! Oh!"

Eddie Grote was ashamed, horribly ashamed. The water was fast falling below his knees. To get back to the depths was impossible; to go straight ahead were greater shame. Facing the inevitable, and clutching frantically at the flying skirts of modesty, he doubled up like a little turtle, chin to knees, and cried quits in those last words of the conquered: "I give up! I give up!"

Margery, who knew the practices of modern warfare quite as well as he, ceased fire and slowly backed away. She backed amid a chorus that was like a triumphant "See the Conquering Hero Comes." Freddy Larkin called out, "What's the matheh with Mardthery?" and the others took up the chant:

h, what fun