Cow-fashion was a
burlesque of this, and the swimmer reared out of water with each
stroke, creating tidal waves. It was thought to be vastly comic.
Steamboat-fashion was where a fellow swam on his back, keeping his
body up by a gentle, secret paddling motion with his hands, while
with his feet he lashed the water into foam, like some river
stern-wheeler. If he could cry: "Hoo! hoo! hoo!" in hoarse falsetto
to mimic the whistle, it was an added charm.
It was a red-headed boy from across the tracks on his good behavior
at the swimming-hole above the dam that I first saw swim
hand-over-hand, or "sailor-fashion" as we called it, rightly or
wrongly, I know not. I can hear now the crisp, staccato little
smack his hand gave the water as he reached forward.
It has ever since been my envy and despair. It is so knowing, so
"sporty." I class it with being able to wear a pink-barred shirt
front with a diamond-cluster pin in it; with having my clothes so
nobby and stylish that one thread more of modishness would be beyond
the human power to endure; with being genuinely fond of horseracing;
with being a first-class poker player, I mean a really first-class
one; with being able to swallow a drink of whisky as if I liked it
instead of having to choke it down with a shudder; with knowing truly
great men like Fitzsimmons, or whoever it is that is great now, so
as to be able to slap him on the back and say: "Why, hello! Bob, old
boy, how are you?" with being delighted with the company of actors,
instead of finding them as thin as tissue-paper - what wouldn't I
give if I could be like that? My life has been a sad one.
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