“Phil,” cried Pat, “can you swim?”
“A little,” said Phil.
“It’s our last chance. Will ye do what I tell ye?”
“Yes.”
“Take off yer coat, howld on to yer oar, and jump whin I give the word.”
“What!” cried Phil; “stop rowing? Why, we’ll be lost—”
“Lost, is it? We’re sure to be that—row—or no row—so do as I say—will ye?”
Phil was silent for a moment, and still tugged at his oar, for neither of them had stopped during this conversation. In that moment of extremest peril there was no time to be taken up in deliberating. He had either to consent to Pat’s proposition, or refuse, and that at once.
“The boat’ll upset,” cried Pat, “sure. You jump out wid me whin I give the word. But ye’ll have to take off yer coat first. Yer bound to get a duckin, ony way, an ye’d better do as I say.”
“I’ll do it,” cried Phil, suddenly and decidedly.