“But air over the water, you mean,” I said.
“No; in the water; it will hold an enormous deal of air or gas. Look at soda-water, for instance, how full of gas that is, and how the tiny beads come bubbling out as soon as the pressure is removed. Now, if I only had a few fish in these troughs, there would be plenty of air for them naturally in the water, but with so many in my charge,” he sighed, “it must be supplied artificially.”
“All right, then, we’ll supply it artificially; but it looks very comic to be blowing the water with bellows instead of the fire, and if Walters catches me at it, he’ll tell everybody that I’ve gone mad.”
“Then you will help me?” he said, appealingly.
“Oh yes, I’ll help you,” I replied, and he looked so big and boyish that I felt as if I ought to slap him over the back and call him “old chap.”
“Thank you, thank you,” he said in his mild way; “and—er—er—”
Then he stopped, with his mouth opening and shutting; and as I stared at him, I could not help thinking how like he was to one of his fish.
“Yes,” I said; “you were going to say something.”
“Eh? Was I?” he said, looking quite red in the face, and uneasy. “Oh, it was nothing—nothing—I—er—I hardly know what I was about to say. Yes, I do,” he cried, desperately; “I remember now. You were close to us this morning when Mr Denning spoke to me. Did you hear what he said?”
“No, I was too far off,” I replied; “but he seemed to be speaking snappishly.”