Ascending late, I saw gulls flying round us and seaweed drifting
by, and Mr. McGuntrie in a state of nerves, with a life belt about him,
walking wildly to and fro.
"Well, Mr. Bayne," he greeted me, "never again for mine! If I ever
see the end of this trip,--if you call it a trip; I call it merry
hades,--believe me, I'll sell something hereafter that I can sell on
land. I'm a crackerjack of a salesman, if I do say it myself. Once I got
started talking I could get a man down below to buy a hot toddy and a
set of flannels--and I wish I'd gone down there and done it before I
ever saw this boat."
Unmoved, I leaned on the railing and watched the blue swells break.
McGuntrie took a turn or two. In the ship's library he had discovered a
manual entitled "How to Swim," and he was now attempting between laments
to memorize its salient points.
"The first essay is best made in water of not less than fifty degrees
Fahrenheit, and not more than four feet in depth," he gabbled, and
then broke off to gaze at the sea about us, chilly in temperature, and
countless fathoms deep.
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