“Man overboard!” yelled Reddy, scarcely able to say it for laughter.
The crowd on the other powerboat heard the shout, if they had not all seen Purt’s exhibition of diving. The dude went under just as deep as the dog, and did not come to the surface anywhere near as quickly.
The Barnacle, whether he was a water-dog, or not, was a good swimmer. When his head shot above the stream he yelped, started to paddle after the Duchess and her tow, saw that that was 75 useless, and turned toward the southerly bank of the stream.
The river was half a mile wide at this place, and the Barnacle left a wake like a motorboat behind him. He was going to reach the shore all right.
How about the master he had adopted? Purt came to the surface more slowly, but when he got there he emitted a shriek like a steam whistle.
The Duchess had gone ahead of him. Arthur Hobbs was poised to leap overboard; but there swept close to the dude one of the trailing canoes, and just by raising an arm Purt reached it.
He clung to the gunwale and was dragged on behind the Duchess. At first the canoe tipped and threatened to turn over; Purt slipped along to the stern, and there got a grip on both sides, and so trailed on behind, getting his breath.
“He’s all right,” said Reddy, chuckling. “Let him cool off a little, Art.”
The girls aboard the Bonnie Lass were somewhat worried over Purt Sweet’s predicament. “He’ll be drowned!” Lily Pendeton declared, first of all.
“I’m not afraid of that,” Bobby said. “But if that suit of his shrinks, what a sight he’ll be!”