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.
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