"Mr. Wesson."
A correspondent of a London daily paper wrote to his editor not long ago to complain that there was a wave of profanity passing over the country. Jimmy added a silent but heartfelt contribution to that wave.
"Give him the slip," he said earnestly. It was the chance of a lifetime, a unique chance, perhaps his last chance, and it was to be lost for the sake of an ass like Wesson.
Molly looked doubtful.
"Well, come down to the water, and have a look at it," said Jimmy.
"That'll be better than nothing."
They walked to the water's edge together in silence, Jimmy in a fever of anxiety. He looked behind him. No signs of Wesson yet. All might still be well.
"It does look nice, Jimmy, doesn't it?" said Molly, placing a foot on the side of the boat and rocking it gently.
"Come on," said Jimmy hoarsely. "Give him the slip. Get in."
Molly looked round hesitatingly.
"Well—oh, bother, there he is. And he's seen me."