"Yes, comrade, it's not bad. When we get a little farther out you may paddle your feet in the water," said Patch, kindly. "This, my lad, is the sea, the abode of the finny tribe—it is mainly composed of water, but there is a proportion of salt added, as you will observe if you drink about a quart of it."
"Get out," laughed Jack. "You're kidding me—aren't you? You're taking advantage of my youth and ignorance. And is it all wet?"
"Every drop," Patch assured him solemnly. "Think of it—all that immense mass, and not a dry spot anywhere throughout it. Doesn't the thought stagger you?"
"Now you put it in that way, it does," agreed Jack. "Beginning to blow a bit, isn't it?"
"Yes, comrade. If it keeps on blowing like this you'll have to hold on to your hat."
The playful wind caught Patch's words and tossed them away.
"You what?" yelled Jack.
"Your hat, comrade. You know what a hat is, don't you?"
"Yes—a thing the chap passes round after the cornet solo. I know. A cousin of mine had one once."
Jack's spirits, in fact, were becoming more and more volatile; this lively fooling only served to render him more buoyant than ever.