"But I tell you I can't," she insisted, her voice rising to a long-drawn wail. "It buttons behind."
With the utmost dignity the screen slowly turned itself around. That was a signal for the small boys in the water to break forth into jeers and taunts. They spoke in that treble squeal which little boys use when they seek to imitate girls' voices.
"Say, Henry, please lend me your towel to wipe my ears."
Apparently Henry's calm remained unshaken. In reality he made a rather poor job of the buttoning. As soon as the back of the dress promised to hold together, he stopped. Then, firmly clutching Margery's arm in one hand and holding his seine and tin can of minnows in the other, he faced his waspish little tormentors.
The moment had come for him to speak. He did not hesitate. Had he been forty-five and bald, he could not have met the situation with more determined conventionality. He realized, plainly enough, that the family had been disgraced, and neither to herself nor to the world would he minimize or excuse Margery's culpability. Yet, nevertheless, he would do his best to hush up the scandal.
"See here, you kids," he began warningly. Both hands were occupied, so he could not emphasize his threat with the sight of a clenched fist. His tones, however, carried conviction. "If any of you's blab about this, I'll give you such a smashin'----"
Henry did not finish the sentence. There was no need to finish the sentence. When one's thought has been fully enough expressed, why go on further?
Henry paused a moment for the meaning to sink in. Then he started up the knoll, dragging Margery after him. Instantly the pond was in an uproar.
"Oh, Henry, can't guess who I seen in swimmin' this afternoon!"
"Comin' back to-morrow, ain't you, Margery?"
"Better slow up, Henry, or you'll drop your minnies."
"Say, Margery, your stockin's is comin' down."
Then Freddy Larkin started to chant at the top of his lungs:
Motheh, may I go out to thwim? Yeth, my darlin' daughter; Hang your cloth' ...
Of course Margery knew that their wit was aimed at Henry, not at her. But she breathed freer, nevertheless, once out of ear-shot.
Henry dragged her homeward at a furious pace. He held her arm so tightly that it ached. The worst was that she couldn't make him argue about it. He simply held on without talking.