Wefers reached the dock, and
stamped out to its extreme end, where was moored the livery scow
he had commandeered for his journey across the lake from the
village.
A light wind was blowing. It had caught the scow's wide stern and
had swung it out from the dock. Wefers unhooked the chain and
dropped it clankingly into the bottom. Then, with ponderous
uncertainty, he stepped from the dock's string-piece to the prow
of his boat.
A whiff of breeze slapped the loosened scow, broadside on, and
sent it drifting an inch or two away. As a result, Homer Wefers'
large shoe-sole was planted on the edge of the prow, instead of
its center. His sole was slippery from the dew of the lawn. The
prow's edge was still more slippery, from having been the scene
of a recent fish-cleaning.
The constable's gangling body strove in vain to hold any
semblance of balance. His foot slid out from its precarious
perch, pushing the boat farther into the lake. And the dignified
officer flapped wildly in mid-air.
Not being built on a lighter-than-air principle, he failed to
hold this undignified aerial pose for more than the tenth of a
second.
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