It wouldn't matter for a minute or two he thought, and surely a boat is no more difficult to manage than a bicycle.
But a boat really seems to be like a horse, and knows when there is a lubber at the helm.
It was not a squall—a real squall—only a bit of a puff, but Antony couldn't let fly the sheet in time, and the tiller got in the way. It is to be feared that he said, 'Hang the thing!' but he found himself in the water next moment in a dreadfully awkward position, with the Jenny Wren on her side.
He sank, and perhaps it was well for him he did, for he managed to clear his feet; and although the water was roaring in his ears, and he had swallowed a lot of it, he got to the surface and at once struck out for the boat, which was only a short distance off.
He thought he could right her. He was mistaken, for he only puffed himself, and the Jenny filled and slowly sank, sail and broken mast and all.
Antony could not have believed it was so difficult to swim a long way with clothes on. At first it appeared to be so easy. But, instead of getting nearer to the shore, it looked receding from him. He tried floating. Oh, it was horrible, so he began to swim again; but soon got excited and put more strokes into it than there was any necessity for.
He tried treading water, but the cruel waves lapped up over his face and almost suffocated him. Poor Antony was drowning!
He knew not that, at this very moment, two men in a camp-boat were dashing rapidly on towards him.
Drowning!
Did the events of his past life come up in review before him? No, that is but landlubbers' nonsense. There were the horrid noises in his ears, flashes of bright confused light in his eyes, a terrible sensation of choking, and a feeling of pain in the top of the head, then—nothingness.