"Yes, I dare say," Peckover retorted. "You don't catch me trying it. It's not the same depth all over. We're on a bit of a bank here."
"Look at the blamed thing going off," Gage cried. "Let go! She'll be a quarter of a mile away directly."
But Peckover was not to be shaken off. "You don't go and leave me here," he insisted wildly, "for any old punt."
The situation was an interesting one, and as such, no doubt the four spectators acknowledged it. Their comments, however, had not so far been directed to the performers.
"What are you going to do?" Peckover asked, still gripping the plunging Gage.
"Going for a swim," he answered unfeelingly, at the same time making spirited but futile efforts to dive.
"No, you don't," Peckover returned, restraining his companion's attempts with all the energy that the chill and unusual element allowed him.
Gage, kicking and struggling, was at length obliged to desist, after having furnished a several minutes' novel and exhilarating exhibition to the puzzled spectators. Short of actual murderous violence, it was not possible for him to free himself from the tenacious Peckover. It was difficult, he had to own, to do much in the way of natation with a desperate person hanging like grim death on to his legs, moreover, Peckover's embrace had a tendency to send Gage's head under water and to keep it there. So, exasperated and vindictive as he felt, he had to compromise.
"Well," he said, veiling his displeasure and sense of defeat with a cheerless grin, "am I going to save your life or not—before we catch our death of cold?"
"You've got to," was the dogged reply. "Five thousand a year is too good to say good-bye to in the middle of a pond."