More than once in my eventful career I have realized that neither success nor defeat is what it appears to be. While Mr. Ben Waterford was congratulating himself upon the victory he had apparently achieved, and I was mourning over the defeat involved in my catastrophe, neither of us had foreseen the end. Miss Collingsby appeared to be the greatest sufferer; and the scream with which she announced my defeat was only the echo of my own feelings. As the battle was really her own, rather than mine, of course my misfortune was the greater catastrophe to her. I lay upon my back on the ground, just as I had tumbled over the bow of the tender. But I did not lie there any great length of time--perhaps not the hundredth part of a second. But there are times when one can think of a great deal in the hundredth part of a second; and I am sure my thoughts were very busy during that infinitesimal period. My reflections were not selfish, and it did not occur to me that Mr. Whippleton was escaping from me and from the wrath to come--only that my fair cousin would be at the mercy of my conqueror. This was the pungent regret of the moment; and it seemed to me that I ought not to stay conquered. I had left my coat on board of the yacht in order to be able to swim if occasion should require; and I voted unanimously that the occasion did require that I should take a muddy bath in the service of the young lady. My first care was to get up. In doing so, I felt the painter of the boat under me. It seemed to have been left there when the tender was pushed into the water to suggest my next step. It did suggest it, and I hastened to profit by the advantage. As I began to get up, Mr. Ben Waterford began to push off the boat; and I had just time to seize the rope before it was dragged into the water. I picked it up, and promptly checked the operations of the angry skipper. I checked them rather suddenly. Mr. Waterford was at the stern of the boat; and as he raised his oar to give it another push, I gathered up all my strength, and made a desperate twitch at the rope. As every one knows who has had anything to do with them, boats are wretchedly unsteady to a person in a standing position. Even an old sailor may find it impossible to maintain his perpendicularity when the boat is unexpectedly moved. Philosophically, the inertia of the man should be gradually overcome, and suddenly overcoming the inertia of the boat, as practice and the formula have both demonstrated, does not overcome that of the man. If he be not prepared for the change from rest to motion, he is in very great danger of being thrown down, and if near the water, of being thrown into it. [Illustration: THE TABLES TURNED--PHIL THE VICTOR. Page 221.]