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 the others were trying to be as polite and considerate as possible, and yet they could not refrain from exhibiting their amusement, their delight.
Scarborough, who had swum ahead of the others, waded ashore and looked him over. “I tell you what you’d better do, Mr. Upton,” he said. “You’d better take your clothes off, wring them out, and spread them out to dry. They’ll dry in this sun and wind. And while they’re doing that, you can come in swimming with us.”
Irving hesitated a moment; instinct told him that the advice was sensible, yet he shrank from accepting it; he felt that for a master to do what Scarborough suggested would be undignified, and might somehow compromise his position. “I think I’d better run home and rub myself down and put on some dry things,” he replied.
“Well,” said Scarborough, “just as you say. Sorry I got you into this mess.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Irving.
He walked away, with the water trickling uncomfortably down him inside his clothes and swashing juicily in his shoes. He liked Scarborough for the way he had acted, but he felt less kindly towards Westby. He was by no means sure that Westby had not deliberately soused him and then pretended it was an accident. He remembered Westby’s mirthful laugh just when the thing was happening; and certainly if it had really been an accident Westby had shown very little concern. He had been indecently amused; he was so still; his clear joyous laugh was ringing after Irving even now, and Irving felt angrily that he was at this moment a ridiculous figure. To be running home drenched!—probably it would have been better if he had done what Scarborough had suggested, less undignified, more manly really. But he couldn’t turn back now.
He was cold and his teeth had begun to chatter, so he started to run. He hoped that when he came out of the woods he might be fortunate enough to elude observation on the way to the Upper School, but in this he was disappointed. As he jogged by the Study building, with his clothes jouncing and slapping heavily upon his shoulders, out came the rector and met him face to face.
“Upset canoeing?” asked the rector with a smile.
“Yes,” Irving answered; he stood for a moment awkwardly.
“Well, it will happen sometimes,” said the rector. “Don’t catch cold.” And he passed on.