I managed to retain my identity in this multitude somehow, and while I was very much impressed with their numbers, I even dared to pick and choose my friends among the Wilners.  One or two of the smaller boys I liked best of all, for a game of hide-and-seek or a frolic on the beach.  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.

“An’ I can walk on my hands,” the tormentor calls after her.  “Say, you greenhorn, why don’tcher look?”

The girl keeps straight on, vowing that she would never walk with that rude boy again, neither by land nor sea, not even though the waters should part at his bidding.

I am forgetting the more serious business which had brought us to Crescent Beach.  While we children disported ourselves like mermaids and mermen in the surf, our respective fathers dispensed cold lemonade, hot peanuts, and pink popcorn, and piled up our respective fortunes, nickel by nickel, penny by penny.  I was very proud of my connection with the public life of the beach.  I admired greatly our shining soda fountain, the rows of sparkling glasses, the pyramids of oranges, the sausage chains, the neat white counter, and the bright array of tin spoons.  It seemed to me that none of the other refreshment stands on the beach—­there were a few—­were half so attractive as ours.  I thought my father looked very well in a long white apron and shirt sleeves.  He dished out ice cream with enthusiasm, so I supposed he was getting rich.  It never occurred to me to compare his present occupation with the position for which he had been originally destined; or if I thought about it, I was just as well content, for by this time I had by heart my father’s saying, “America is not Polotzk.”  All occupations were respectable, all men were equal, in America.