, and "boldly breast the foamy flood."
But I did neither, for the simple reason that once within the
'foamy flood' aforesaid, there would have been very little chance
of my ever getting out again, for - let me confess the fact with
the blush of shame - I am no swimmer.
Yet I was not idle, far otherwise. Having judged the distance
between the drifting boat and the bank, I began running along,
seeking the thing I wanted. And presently, sure enough, I found
it - a great pollard oak, growing upon the edge of the water,
that identical tree with the 'stickie-out' branches which has
already figured in these narratives as the hiding-place of a certain
pair of silk stockings.
Hastily swinging myself up, I got astride the lowest branch, which
projected out over the water. I had distanced the boat by some
hundred yards, and as I sat there I watched its drift, one minute
full of hope, and the next as miserably uncertain. My obvious
intention was to crawl out upon the branch until it bent with
my weight, and so let myself into, or as near the boat as possible.
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