I stood looking out of the store window one day; the snow had melted in the street, and right over the stones that had been laid across the road for a walk, there was a great puddle of muddy water about two yards wide and a foot deep.

I soon saw Hetty Slocum tripping across the street; she came to the puddle and stood still; the soft slush was heaped up on either side--she couldn't get around and she couldn't go through.

My natural gallantry got the better of my resentment, and I went out to help her over, notwithstanding what she had said when I was under the counter.
Planting one foot firmly in the center of the puddle and bracing the other against the curb-stone, I extended my hand.
"If you're good at jumping, Miss Slocum," said I, "I'll land you safely on this side." "Oh," said she, roguishly, "Mr.Flutter, can I trust you ?" and she reached out her little gloved hand.
All my old embarrassment rushed over me.

I became nervous at the critical moment when I should have been cool.

I never could tell just how it happened--whether her glove was slippery, or my foot slipped on a piece of ice under slush, or what--but the next moment we were both of us sitting down in fourteen inches of very cold, very muddy water.
[Illustration: THE NEXT MOMENT WE WERE BOTH OF US SITTING DOWN IN FOURTEEN INCHES OF VERY COLD, VERY MUDDY WATER.] My best beaver hat flew off and was run over by a passing sled, while a little dog ran away with Hetty's seal-skin muff.
I floundered around in that puddle for about two minutes, and then I got up.