But there came an interruption which stopped him short. A quick loud splashing and sudden cries arose from the water near at hand; and he divined instantly what had happened. The college professor, like the ass he was, had upset his canoe.
Varney halted, strode back to the rail. The professor came up spluttering, blowing quarts of water from his mouth and nose, making feeble strokes with his ineffective, collegiate arms.
"Help!" he called in a thin watery voice. "Help! I can't swim." Whereon, he immediately bobbed under again.
Of course, there was nothing to do but accede to that request.
"Lay hold of the canoe," called Varney impatiently, when the poor fellow reappeared. "I'll send a boat down for you."
There had been no chance of his drowning: for the overturned canoe was staunch, and floated, a splendid life-belt, not a foot away from him. At Varney's word, he seized hold of it feebly, with both hands. The crew were quick. One or two of them had been watching the madman's antics for some time, it appeared; and they had a boat down and over to him in no time.
Sopping with water, dripping it from his clothes and his hair and his brown academic beard, a dazed and pitiable-looking object, he came up the ladder not without nimbleness, and stepped through the gangway upon the deck.
Varney took it that his own duties in the matter were now at an end. "Hold your places," he called to the boat crew. "I shall need you myself at once."
Then he turned hurriedly to the man he had rescued, who stood silently on the deck, wringing cups of water from the skirts of his black cutaway coat.
"I'll have them bring you dry clothes," he said swiftly, "and anything else you need. You'll excuse me? I am compelled to—"