“Don’t do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won’t be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you’re rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can’t ketch us!”
“Jem, my lad,” said Don, quietly; “don’t talk to me as if I were a child. It’s very good of you, and—kind—but—but I’m done, Jem—I’m done.”
“You’re not!” cried Jem, savagely. “Say that again, and I’ll hit you in the mouth. You arn’t done, and it’s the way with you. You’re the obsnittest chap as ever was. You’ve got to swim ashore as soon as you’re rested, and I say you shall.”
Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky.
“There. It was time I spoke,” continued Jem. “Some chaps loses heart about nothing.”
“Nothing, Jem?”
“Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o’ smooth water. I’ve swum twice as far as this. Rested?”
Don made no reply.
“Ah, you will be soon. It’s the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas’ Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference.”
“Jem,” said Don, interrupting him.