The voices of the gentlemen could be plainly heard as they emerged from the chart room and sauntered toward the side of the steamer where Beven had left his yawl—no doubt the visitor was still cracking some of his old chestnut jokes, for the laughter of Don Porfidio bubbled over almost continually—besides; that champagne had been very extra dry.
At any rate the suggestion advanced by Georgia coincided with Roderic's own views on the subject.
Perhaps Jerome, had he been given a voice in the matter, as the party most interested, might have strenuously objected—baths he liked, indeed, was very partial to, in their proper season, but to be thus unceremoniously tumbled from the deck of a steamer into the briny deep, with his most elaborate evening garments on his person was really too much of a good thing, and he must have protested earnestly could he but have found wind with which to clothe his argument.
That luxury was in a great measure denied him, and the best he could do was to make a feeble kick against the decision of the fair court being carried into execution.
It counted for nought.
The American having started could hardly be restrained—once the match is applied to a train of powder it is difficult to prevent the fire from running its entire length.
So Jerome was dragged ignobly over the deck to the rail, past the beauty who had ordered his ducking—he endeavored to so wind himself about the affections and also the limbs of his intended executioner that the latter would have to change his desperate plans or else take the plunge in his delectable company; but Roderic knew a trick or two that might be used with profit under such conditions, and he readily broke the hold of the desperate and vanquished beau.
Then came the finish.
Wellington took a tumble.
He exhausted what breath he chanced to have in his lungs with one awful whoop as he went plunging down, arms and legs outspread after the manner of a gigantic frog.