“Go to the devil!” said the professor.  “I wish to have nothing to do with either of you.  I should be glad if you would cease this persecution.  Persecution, sir!”

His remarks, which I have placed on paper as if they were continuous and uninterrupted, were punctuated in reality by a series of gasps and puffings, as he received and rejected the successors of the wave he had swallowed at the beginning of our little chat.  The art of conducting conversation while in the water is not given to every swimmer.  This he seemed to realise, for, as if to close the interview, he proceeded to make his way as quickly as he could to the shore.  Unfortunately, his first dash brought him squarely up against Ukridge, who, not having expected the collision, clutched wildly at him and took him below the surface again.  They came up a moment later on the worst terms.

“Are you trying to drown me, sir?” barked the professor.

“My dear old horse,” said Ukridge complainingly, “it’s a little hard.  You might look where you’re going.”

“You grappled with me!”

“You took me by surprise, laddie.  Rid yourself of the impression that you’re playing water-polo.”

“But, professor,” I said, joining the group and treading water, “one moment.”

I was growing annoyed with the man.  I could have ducked him, but for the reflection that my prospects of obtaining his consent to my engagement would scarcely have been enhanced thereby.

“But, professor,” I said, “one moment.”

“Go away, sir!  I have nothing to say to you.”

“But he has lots to say to you,” said Ukridge.  “Now’s the time, old horse,” he added encouragingly to me.  “Spill the news!”

Without preamble I gave out the text of my address.

“I love your daughter, Phyllis, Mr. Derrick.  She loves me.  In fact, we are engaged.”

“Devilish well put, laddie,” said Ukridge approvingly.

The professor went under as if he had been seized with cramp.  It was a little trying having to argue with a man, of whom one could not predict with certainty that at any given moment he would not be under water.  It tended to spoil the flow of one’s eloquence.  The best of arguments is useless if the listener suddenly disappears in the middle of it.

“Stick to it, old horse,” said Ukridge.  “I think you’re going to bring it off.”

I stuck to it.

“Mr. Derrick,” I said, as his head emerged, “you are naturally surprised.”

“You would be,” said Ukridge.  “We don’t blame you,” he added handsomely.

“You—­you—­you—­” So far from cooling the professor, liberal doses of water seemed to make him more heated.  “You impudent scoundrel!”

My reply was more gentlemanly, more courteous, on a higher plane altogether.

I said, winningly:  “Cannot we let bygones be bygones?”

From his remarks I gathered that we could not.  I continued.  I was under the unfortunate necessity of having to condense my speech.  I was not able to let myself go as I could have wished, for time was an important consideration.  Ere long, swallowing water at his present rate, the professor must inevitably become waterlogged.