“You can swim all right, can’t you, Mr. Upton?” said Westby. “I thought
for a moment we might have to dive for you.”

Irving clutched at the stern of the capsized canoe and said, rather
curtly, “I’m not dressed to enjoy swimming.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Scarborough. “But I never thought they were
going to turn that way; I don’t know what Carrie thought he was doing—”

“I’d have shown you some strategy if you hadn’t blundered into us,”
declared Carroll.

“Blundered into you! There was no need for Wes to give us such a poke,
anyhow.”

Westby replied merely with an irritating chuckle—irritating at least to
Irving, who felt that he should be showing more contrition.

Collingwood and Morrill came alongside, both laughing, jeering at Westby
and offering polite expressions of solicitude to the master. They told
him to lay hold of the tail of their canoe, and then they towed him
ashore as rapidly as possible. When he drew himself up, dripping, on the
bank, Baldersnaith, Dennison, and Smythe were all on the broad grin, and
from the water floated the sound of Westby’s merriment.

Irving stood for a moment, letting himself drip, quite undecided as to
what he should do. He had never been ducked before, with all his clothes
on; the clammy, weighted sensation was most unpleasant, the thought of
his damaged and perhaps ruined suit was galling, the indignity of his
appearance was particularly hard to bear. He felt that Baldersnaith and