I said, “Professor, the fault was mine.  Show that you have forgiven me by coming up to the farm and putting on something dry.”

“An excellent idea, me boy; I am a little wet.”

“A little,” I agreed.

We walked briskly up the hill to the farm.

Ukridge met us at the gate.

He diagnosed the situation rapidly.

“You’re all wet,” he said.  I admitted it.

“Professor Derrick has had an unfortunate boating accident,” I explained.

“And Mr. Garnet heroically dived in, in all his clothes, and saved me life,” broke in the professor.  “A hero, sir.  A—­choo!”

“You’re catching cold, old horse,” said Ukridge, all friendliness and concern, his little differences with the professor having vanished like thawed snow.  “This’ll never do.  Come upstairs and get into something of Garnet’s.  My own toggery wouldn’t fit.  What?  Come along, come along, I’ll get you some hot water.  Mrs. Beale—­Mrs. Beale!  We want a large can of hot water.  At once.  What?  Yes, immediately.  What?  Very well then, as soon as you can.  Now then, Garny, my boy, out with the duds.  What do you think of this, now, professor?  A sweetly pretty thing in grey flannel.  Here’s a shirt.  Get out of that wet toggery, and Mrs. Beale shall dry it.  Don’t attempt to tell me about it till you’re changed.  Socks!  Socks forward.  Show socks.  Here you are.  Coat?  Try this blazer.  That’s right—­that’s right.”

He bustled about till the professor was clothed, then marched him downstairs, and gave him a cigar.

“Now, what’s all this?  What happened?”

The professor explained.  He was severe in his narration upon the unlucky Mr. Hawk.

“I was fishing, Mr. Ukridge, with me back turned, when I felt the boat rock violently from one side to the other to such an extent that I nearly lost me equilibrium, and then the boat upset.  The man’s a fool, sir.  I could not see what had happened, my back being turned, as I say.”

“Garnet must have seen.  What happened, old horse?”

“It was very sudden,” I said.  “It seemed to me as if the man had got an attack of cramp.  That would account for it.  He has the reputation of being a most sober and trustworthy fellow.”

“Never trust that sort of man,” said Ukridge.  “They are always the worst.  It’s plain to me that this man was beastly drunk, and upset the boat while trying to do a dance.”

“A great curse, drink,” said the professor.  “Why, yes, Mr. Ukridge, I think I will.  Thank you.  Thank you.  That will be enough.  Not all the soda, if you please.  Ah! this tastes pleasanter than salt water, Mr. Garnet.  Eh?  Eh?  Ha—­Ha!”

He was in the best of tempers, and I worked strenuously to keep him so.  My scheme had been so successful that its iniquity did not worry me.  I have noticed that this is usually the case in matters of this kind.  It is the bungled crime that brings remorse.