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‘They lent me this downstairs,’ he explained, ‘while they dried my clothes. They would do anything for me. I’m the popular hero. My boy, you made the mistake of your life when you threw up the rescuer part. It has all the fat. I see that now. The rescuer plays the other man off the stage every time. I’ve just been interviewed by the fellow on the local newspaper. He’s correspondent to a couple of London papers. The country will ring with this thing. I’ve told them all the parts I’ve ever played and my favourite breakfast food. There’s a man coming up to take my photograph tomorrow. Footpills stock has gone up with a run. Wait till Monday and see what sort of a house we shall draw. By the way, the reporter fellow said one funny thing. He asked if you weren’t the same man who was rescued yesterday by a girl. I said of course not–that you had only come down yesterday. But he stuck to it that you were.’

‘He was quite right.’

‘What!’

‘I was.’

Mr Mifflin sat down on the bed.

‘This fellow fell off the pier, and a girl brought him in.’

George nodded.

‘And that was you?’

George nodded.

Mr Mifflin’s eyes opened wide.

‘It’s the heat,’ he declared, finally. ‘That and the worry of rehearsals. I expect a doctor could give the technical name for it. It’s a what-do-you-call-it–an obsession. You often hear of cases. Fellows who are absolutely sane really, but cracked on one particular subject. Some of them think they’re teapots and things. You’ve got a craving for being rescued from drowning. What happens, old man? Do you suddenly get the delusion that you can’t swim? No, it can’t be that, because you were doing all the swimming for the two of us just now. I don’t know, though. Maybe you didn’t realize that you were swimming?’

George finished lacing his shoe and looked up.

‘Listen,’ he said; ‘I’ll talk slow, so that you can understand. Suppose you fell off a pier, and a girl took a great deal of trouble to get you to the shore, would you say, “Much obliged, but you needn’t have been so officious. I can swim perfectly well?”‘

Mr Mifflin considered this point. Intelligence began to dawn in his face. ‘There is more in this than meets the eye,’ he said. ‘Tell me all.’

‘This morning’–George’s voice grew dreamy–‘she gave me a swimming-lesson. She thought it was my first. Don’t cackle like that. There’s nothing to laugh at.’

Mr Mifflin contradicted this assertion.

‘There is you,’ he said, simply. ‘This should be a lesson to you, George. Avoid deceit. In future be simple and straightforward. Take me as your model. You have managed to scrape through this time. Don’t risk it again. You are young. There is still time to make a fresh start. It only needs will-power. Meanwhile, lend me something to wear. They are going to take a week drying my clothes.’

* * * * *

There was a rehearsal at the Beach Theatre that evening. George attended it in a spirit of resignation and left it in one of elation. Three days had passed since his last sight of the company at work, and in those three days, apparently, the impossible had been achieved. There was a snap and go about the piece now. The leading lady had at length mastered that cue, and gave it out with bell-like clearness. Arthur Mifflin, as if refreshed and braced by his salt-water bath, was infusing a welcome vigour into his part. And even the comedian, George could not help admitting, showed signs of being on the eve of becoming funny. It was with a light heart and a light step that he made his way back to the hotel.

In the veranda were a number of basket-chairs. Only one was occupied. He recognized the occupant.