"Cantshunderstand Englsphish?"

He dragged himself up on the springboard dripping and spluttering, and
clutching this latest memento of his submarine explorations.

"It's a turtle--t-u-r-t-e-l--I mean l-e--can't you understand English?"
Pee-wee demanded as soon as the water was out of his mouth and nose.

"Not submarine English," his companion retorted. "You can't keep your
mouth shut even under water."

It was indeed a turtle, which had already adopted tactics for a
prolonged siege, its head, tail and four little stubby legs being drawn
quite within its shell. Nor was it tempted out of this posture of
defense when Pee-wee hurled it at Tom Slade who was standing near the
mooring float, watching the diving.

"There's a souvenir for you, Tomasso," Pee-wee called.

Tom caught the turtle and was about to hurl it at another scout who
stood a few yards distant, when he noticed something carved on the upper
surface of the turtle's shell. He pulled up a tuft of grass, rubbing the
shell to clean it, and as he did so, the carving came out clearly,
showing the letters T. H.

The scout who had been ready to catch the missile now stepped over to
look at it, and in ten seconds a dozen scouts were crowding around Tom
and craning their necks over his shoulders.