cleverly on the back of my neck in the bottom of the boat, so that I
experienced the rather odd sensation of feeling the hot sun on the
soles of my feet. This procedure, of course, did not go unnoticed.
Nothing I do goes unnoticed, save the good things. The coxswain made a
few comments which showed him to be a thoroughly ill-bred person, but
further than this I was not persecuted. After we had rowed
interminable distances through leagues upon leagues of doggedly
resisting water a man in the bow remarked casually that he had several
friends in Florida we might call upon if we kept it up a little
longer, but the coxswain comfortably ensconced upon the hackamatack,
was so deeply engrossed in the perusal of a vest pocket edition of the
"Merchant of Venice" that he failed to grasp the full meaning of the
remark. I lifted my rapidly glazing eyes with no little effort from
the keelson and discovered to my horror that we had hardly passed more
than half a mile of shore-line at the most. What we had been doing all
the time I was unable to figure out. I thought we had been rowing. I
could have sworn we had been rowing, but apparently we had not. I
looked up from my meditation in time to catch the ironical gaze of the
coxswain upon me, and I involuntarily braced myself to the assault.

[Illustration: "THE PROCEDURE, OF COURSE, DID NOT GO UNNOTICED"]

"Say, there, sailor," said he, with a slow, unpleasant drawl, "you're
not rowing; you're weaving. It's fancy work you're doing, blast yer
eyes!"

All who had sufficient strength left in them laughed jeeringly at this
wise observation, but I retained a dignified silence--that is, so far
as a man panting from exhaustion can be silent. At this moment we
passed a small boat being rowed briskly along by a not unattractive