“Your errand is at an end,” I said. “Whether I take you now or not, you can not shake me off. You will never get through to Clinton. Besides, you are losing all your precious time here in the river.”
But he preserved an obstinacy most strange and vexatious. He did not even reply to me, but kept on treading water. I perceived that I must use with him some other means than logic, however sound and unanswerable the latter might be.
Sometimes it happens to me, as doubtless it does to other people, that after being long in a puzzle, the answer comes to me so suddenly and so easily that I wonder why I did not see it first glance.
Without any preliminaries that would seem to warn Chudleigh, I dived out of sight. When I came up I was in such shallow water that I could wade. Near me was a huge bowlder protruding a good two feet above the water. I walked to it, climbed upon it, and taking a comfortable position above the water, looked at Chudleigh, who seemed to be much surprised and aggrieved at my sudden countermarch.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I replied, “except that I am tired of treading water. Come and join me; it’s very pleasant up here.”
He declined my invitation, which I had worded most courteously. I remained silent for a while; then I said:
“Better come. You can’t tread water forever. If you stay there much longer you’ll catch the cramp and drown.”
I lolled on the bowlder and awaited the end with calmness and satisfaction. My signal advantage was apparent.
“I’ll swim to the other shore,” said he presently.