“Or thick-headed,” added the exasperated Mr. Turnbull.
Mr. Blundell regarded him patiently; he had a strong suspicion that his friend had been drinking.
“Stumbling,” said Mr. Turnbull, conquering his annoyance with an effort “stumbling is a thing that might happen to anybody. You trip your foot against a stone and lurch up against Daly; he tumbles overboard, and you off with your jacket and dive in off the quay after him. He can’t swim a stroke.”
Mr. Blundell caught his breath and gazed at him in speechless amaze.
“There’s sure to be several people on the quay if it’s a fine afternoon,” continued his instructor. “You’ll have half Dunchurch round you, praising you and patting you on the back—all in front of Venia, mind you. It’ll be put in all the papers and you’ll get a medal.”
“And suppose we are both drowned?” said Mr. Blundell, soberly.
“Drowned? Fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Turnbull. “However, please yourself. If you’re afraid——”
“I’ll do it,” said Blundell, decidedly.
“And mind,” said the other, “don’t do it as if it’s as easy as kissing your fingers; be half-drowned yourself, or at least pretend to be. And when you’re on the quay take your time about coming round. Be longer than Daly is; you don’t want him to get all the pity.”
“All right,” said the other.