A whiff of breeze slapped the loosened scow, broadside on, and
sent it drifting an inch or two away. As a result, Homer Wefers'
large shoe-sole was planted on the edge of the prow, instead of
its center. His sole was slippery from the dew of the lawn. The
prow's edge was still more slippery, from having been the scene
of a recent fish-cleaning.

The constable's gangling body strove in vain to hold any
semblance of balance. His foot slid out from its precarious
perch, pushing the boat farther into the lake. And the dignified
officer flapped wildly in mid-air.

Not being built on a lighter-than-air principle, he failed to
hold this undignified aerial pose for more than the tenth of a
second. At the end of that time he plunged splashingly into the
lake, at a depth of something like eight feet of water.

"Good!" applauded the Master, as the Mistress gasped aloud in not
wholly sorrowful surprise and as Lad ambled gayly down the lawn
for a closer view of this highly diverting sight. "Good! I hope
he ruins every stitch he has on; and then gets rheumatism and
tonsilitis. He--"

The Master's babbling jaw fell slack; and the pleased grin faded
from his face.

Wefers had come to the surface, after his ducking. He was fully
three yards beyond the dock and as far from his drifting scow.
And he was doing all manner of sensational things with his lanky