I sat on the seat at the end of the Cob and watched the professor.  It was an instructive sight, an object-lesson to those who hold that optimism has died out of the race.  I had never seen him catch a fish.  He never looked to me as if he were at all likely to catch a fish.  Yet he persevered.

There are few things more restful than to watch some one else busy under a warm sun.  As I sat there, my pipe drawing nicely as the result of certain explorations conducted that morning with a straw, my mind ranged idly over large subjects and small.  I thought of love and chicken-farming.  I mused on the immortality of the soul and the deplorable speed at which two ounces of tobacco disappeared.  In the end I always returned to the professor.  Sitting, as I did, with my back to the beach, I could see nothing but his boat.  It had the ocean to itself.

I began to ponder over the professor.  I wondered dreamily if he were very hot.  I tried to picture his boyhood.  I speculated on his future, and the pleasure he extracted from life.

It was only when I heard him call out to Hawk to be careful, when a movement on the part of that oarsman set the boat rocking, that I began to weave romances round him in which I myself figured.

But, once started, I progressed rapidly.  I imagined a sudden upset.  Professor struggling in water.  Myself (heroically):  “Courage!  I’m coming!” A few rapid strokes.  Saved!  Sequel, a subdued professor, dripping salt water and tears of gratitude, urging me to become his son-in-law.  That sort of thing happened in fiction.  It was a shame that it should not happen in real life.  In my hot youth I once had seven stories in seven weekly penny papers in the same month, all dealing with a situation of the kind.  Only the details differed.  In “Not really a Coward” Vincent Devereux had rescued the earl’s daughter from a fire, whereas in “Hilda’s Hero” it was the peppery old father whom Tom Slingsby saved.  Singularly enough, from drowning.  In other words, I, a very mediocre scribbler, had effected seven times in a single month what the Powers of the Universe could not manage once, even on the smallest scale.

* * * * *

It was precisely three minutes to twelve—­I had just consulted my watch—­that the great idea surged into my brain.  At four minutes to twelve I had been grumbling impotently at Providence.  By two minutes to twelve I had determined upon a manly and independent course of action.

Briefly it was this.  Providence had failed to give satisfaction.  I would, therefore, cease any connection with it, and start a rival business on my own account.  After all, if you want a thing done well, you must do it yourself.

In other words, since a dramatic accident and rescue would not happen of its own accord, I would arrange one for myself.  Hawk looked to me the sort of man who would do anything in a friendly way for a few shillings.

I had now to fight it out with Conscience.  I quote the brief report which subsequently appeared in the Recording Angel:—­