This added to the ridiculous side of the question, and, contenting himself with bidding Wat keep close, Gil swam on in the direction of the shore, making very slow progress, and now becoming aware for the first time of the difficulty of the task he had undertaken.
Wat was swimming close at hand, making a good deal of noise, but Gil never thought for a moment that he would have any difficulty, and it was not until they had progressed slowly for about five minutes that the first intimation of danger came like a chill of dread.
“Can you touch bottom, skipper?” said the old fellow.
“No,” said Gil, after a pause. “We are in deep water. Why?”
“Because, if we can’t directly, I shall drown!”
“Nonsense, man,” whispered back Gil. “Swim slowly and steadily, and we shall soon reach the shore.”
There was no more said for a few moments, and then from old Wat, in a low panting voice—
“Skipper, I shan’t never reach no shore; and this ain’t even brackish water, let alone salt.”
“Don’t talk,” said Gil, sharply; “but swim, man, with a long steady stroke.”
“Not even salt water,” said Wat hoarsely, as if he had not heard his leader’s words. “Drowned in a miserable pond.”