And so, like so many small editions of Tantalus, we sat on the bank and kicked our heels in the water, and bemoaned the fate which had brought us into the world without web-feet.
Young donkeys that we were! The idea of _learning_ to swim had never occurred to any of us till Bobby Jobson, in a happy moment, gave birth to the idea in his ejaculation, "I tell you what it is, you fellows, I shall learn to swim!" "How ?" I inquired.
"How ?" said Jobson; "why, you know, how does every body learn ?" and then he was polite enough to call me a duffer.
"I'll tell you the way," said Ralley, one of our set.

"Lie across a desk on your stomach, two or three hours every day, and kick out with your arms and legs." "Corks and bladders," mildly suggested some one else.
"Get old Blades," (that was the boatman) "to tie a rope round your middle and chuck you into the Giant's Pool," kindly proposed another.
"Just tumble in where you are," said Ralley, "and see if it doesn't come naturally." "Ugh!" said Jobson, with a grimace, giving a sidekick in the water in the direction of the last speaker.

"I'm not sure that _that_ dodge would pay." While he spoke, to our unbounded horror, the bank on which he and his next neighbour were sitting suddenly gave way, and next moment, with a shout and a splash, our two comrades were floundering helplessly in five feet of water! Help, happily, was at hand, or there is no saying what might have been the end of the adventure.

We did all we could by reaching out our hands and throwing them our jackets to help them, while, with our shouts, we summoned more effective aid.

Old Blades, who providentially happened to be passing, was with us in less than a minute, and fished out the two poor half-drowned boys, scarcely a moment before they needed it.