Filled with joy, Mr. Jones cast aside his coat and ran across the greensward with the grace of a fawn. He shouted for Kelly and Ike, and in a moment had gathered about him the strong men of the party. He issued his instructions in the terse, certain words of a leader of men. Under his cheery encouragement, cots, with a man at each end, moved rapidly from the boat to their appointed place beneath the trees. Perceiving the flushed face and the speed of the stenographer's movements, Virginia bestowed upon him a glorious smile of approval and called, "Oh, Mr. Jones, what a help you are to me!" The private secretary became proud nigh unto the bursting point. He redoubled his efforts, and in a moment all but the last cot was ashore. Kelly uplifted the far end and bawled for aid. Instantly, Mr. Jones was at hand to seize upon the shore end of the cot. A leg caught upon a stanchion. The stenographer jerked at it. "Get a move on you!" he commanded Kelly. "Wait, you cheese! What's your hurry?" retorted the bookkeeper, as he attempted to withdraw the cot from the stanchion to release the leg. "Come on!" urged the strenuous Mr. Jones, turning and facing Kelly. The leg was freed. "Hustle, you big lobster! Can't you lift your clumsy feet?" persisted the driver of men. Before this admonishment Kelly advanced with alacrity. Mr. Jones moved backwards, blindly, but with haste. "Look out!" sounded Kelly's warning; but alas, too late. In his hurry Mr. Jones missed the gang plank and plunged backwards from the scow into three feet of mud and water. The screams of frightened women rent the air. A cry for the police arose from Mr. Vivian, while from the lips of that seasoned sailor, Sim, rang that terrifying cry, "Man overbo-o-o-ard." Mr. Quince sprang into action at the alarm as a fireman at the stroke of the gong. With a mighty leap he landed on the bow of the _Nancy Jane_. Seizing his pole, he ran along the edge of the barge with the agility of a cat towards the circling waves which alone marked where the private secretary had disappeared. Mr. Quince reached forth tentatively with his pole, as Mr. Jones, having scrambled to his knees beneath the flood, emerged coughing and scrambling from the water. The head of Mr. Jones came up, the pole of Mr. Quince went down. They met. "_Wough!_" The stenographer lifted his voice in anguish and seated himself upon the river bottom, his head protruding above the surface of the water. Undiscouraged, Mr. Quince, with practiced hand, continued to seek for Mr. Jones with the iron hook. "Get off of me with that thing. It hurts," protested the moist private secretary. Regardless of these objections from his victim, Mr. Quince would have persisted in his efforts with a diligence certain of reward had not Kelly reached down from the bank, and, seizing the dripping and miserable stenographer by the hand, pulled him ashore.