"But, professor," I said, "one moment."
"Not one," he spluttered. "Go away, sir. I will have nothing to say to
you."
"I shan't keep you a minute."
He had been trying all this while to pass me and escape to the shore,
but I kept always directly in front of him. He now gave up the attempt
and came to standstill.
"Well?" he said.
Without preamble I gave out the text of the address I was about to
deliver to him.
"I love your daughter Phyllis, Mr. Derrick. She loves me. In fact, we
are engaged," I said.
He went under as if he had been seized with cramp. It was a little
trying having to argue with a man, of whom one could not predict with
certainty that at any given moment he would not be under water. It
tended to spoil one's flow of eloquence. The best of arguments is
useless if the listener suddenly disappears in the middle of it.
However, I persevered.
"Mr. Derrick," I said, as his head emerged, "you are naturally
surprised."
"You--you--you--"
So far from cooling him, liberal doses of water seemed to make him
more heated.
"You impudent scoundrel!"
He said that--not I. What I said was more gentlemanly, more courteous,
on a higher plane altogether.