"And think of you rescuing me, Tom! Why, you aren't any sort of a swimmer! But it certainly was mighty pluck——"
Tom pointed a fork at Steve and interrupted indignantly. It was necessary to head Steve off from further expressions of gratitude. "I like your cheek!" said Tom. "Can't swim! How do you suppose I got out there to you, you silly chump? You didn't see any water-wings or life-preservers floating around, did you? Or do you think I walked? Can't swim! Well, of all the——"
"You know what I mean, Tom. I meant you couldn't swim—er—well, that you weren't a wonder at it!"
"Huh!" grunted Tom. "Don't you talk about swimming after this. You weren't doing much of it when I got to you!"
"No one can swim when he has cramps," responded Steve meekly. "How was the supper?"
Tom gazed at the empty dishes. "All right—as far as it went. I'm going to get up. What time is it and what's going on downstairs?"
"Nothing much just now. We just got through supper. They're taking the chairs and tables out of the dining-room so we can have signal drill at eight. Mr. Robey said you were to get into it if you felt all right. There's someone else downstairs who wants to see you too." And Steve grinned wickedly. "I told him I'd try to arrange an interview."
"Who is it?" asked Tom suspiciously.
"I don't know any Murray. What is this, a joke?"