Victorian Era.  I was swathed in yards of cloth much in the same manner as is a very young child.  It delighted Mr. Fogerty, who expressed his admiration by attaching himself to the lower half of my attire and remaining there until I had waded through several colonies of barnacles far out into the bay.  Bidding farewell to Mr. Fogerty at this point, I gave myself over to the joy of the moment and went wallowing along, giving a surprising imitation of the famous Australian crawl.  Far in the distance I sighted an island, to which I decided to swim.  This was a very poor decision, indeed, because long before I had reached the spot I was in a sinking condition owing to the great heaviness of my suit and a tremendous slacking down of lung power.  It was too late to retreat to the shore; the island was the nearest point, and that wasn’t near.  On I gasped, my mind teeming with cheerless thoughts of the ocean’s bed waiting to receive me.  Just as I was about to shake hands with myself for the last time I cleared the water from my eyes and discovered that the island though still distant was not altogether impossible.  Therewith I discarded the top part of my suit and struck out once more.  The island was now almost within my grasp.  Life seemed to be not such a lost cause after all.  Then suddenly, quite clearly, just as I was about to pull myself up on the shore, I saw a woman standing on the bank and heard her shouting in a very conventional voice: 

“Private property!  Private property!”

I sank.  This was too much.  As I came up for the first count, and just before I sank back beneath the blue, I had time to hear her repeat: 

“Private property!  Please keep off!”

I went down very quickly this time and very far.  When I arose I saw as though in a dream another woman standing by the first one and seemingly arguing with her.

“He’s drowning!” she said.

“I’m sure I can’t help that!” the other one answered.  And then in a loud, imperious voice: 

“Private property!  No visitors allowed!”

The water closed over my head and stilled her hateful voice.

“No,” she was saying as I came up for the third time; “I can’t do it.  If I make an exception of one I must make an exception of all.”

Although I hated to be rude about it, having always disliked forcing myself upon people, I decided on my fourth trip down that unless I wanted to be a dead sailor I had better be taking steps.  It was almost too late.  There wasn’t enough wind left in me to fatten a small sized bubble.

“There he is again!” she cried in a petulant voice as I once more appeared.  “Why doesn’t he go away?”

“He’s just about to—­for good!” said the other lady.  With a pitiful yap I struck out feebly in the general direction of the shore.  It wouldn’t work.  My arms refused to move.  Then quite suddenly and deliriously I felt two soft, cool arms enfold me, and my head sank back on a delicately unholstered shoulder.  Somehow it reminded me of the old days.