Mr. Dick, yearning for a swim, soon found a spot which seemed sufficiently secluded. It was not particularly attractive as a bathing-place. The beach was covered with small rough stones; and, the tide being out, there was a considerable stretch of beach. The water near the shore was full of jellyfish and brown seaweed. But Mr. Dick was too hot and too eager to care much about these inconveniences. His desire was to get as quickly as possible into the sea. He undressed beside a large stone which lay just above high-water mark. Then his troubles began. He had never before walked on such trying stones. The pain which they gave his feet caused him to stumble and fall suddenly forward on his hands. Part of the journey he accomplished on all-fours. The seaweed was a relief when he reached it. The jellyfish were deliciously soft under his feet. He floundered out through them and over them until the water reached his knees. Then he flung himself forward and struck out. The weed brushed his limbs and body. The jellyfish, incredible numbers of them, slipped past him. “This,” he said, “is delicious.” He got past the belt of weed and jellyfish into deep water. He shouted aloud in his joy--a wild inarticulate whoop which went sounding across the waters of the bay. He lay on his back. He kicked with his legs, raising what seemed to him splendid fountains of water. He shouted again. Then he swam further out, using a side stroke which he had learned in a swimming-bath, burying his head each time his arm left the water, and then turning his face up and snorting like a porpoise. After awhile he lay on his back again and began to sing-- “Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves.” The ditty was appropriate enough. Mr. Dick M.P., represented in Rosivera Bay the world’s greatest maritime power, and he had, plainly, so far got the better of the sea that it was obliged to bear him on its breast and minister to his delight. He ruled it. There were, indeed, no waves; but that was not Mr. Dick’s fault. If there had been waves, he would have ruled them. “Rule, Britannia!” he sang again, “Britannia rules the waves. Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.” Mr. Dick had a poor ear for music, and his rendering of the tune was far from correct; but he had a fine voice and it rang out satisfactorily. He felt more than ever like an ancient Berseker. His song was a kind of triumphant challenge to man and nature alike. “This,” he said breathlessly, when he had finished the song for the third time, “is better than mending bicycles. I wonder how poor Sanders is getting on?” He wallowed round and faced the shore. He saw a man approaching from the direction in which the house lay. “Hullo--lo--o!” he shouted. “Coo--ee, Sanders!” Then he saw that it was not Mr. Sanders. He came to the conclusion that it must be one of the inhabitants of the house. He was perfectly right. It was Mr. Red. “Funny-looking old cock he is,” said Mr. Dick.