Odd Craft, Complete. William Wymark Jacobs

you mean to tell me that you are backing out of it?” demanded Mr. Turnbull.

      “No,” said Blundell, slowly, “but it would be much better if I saved somebody else. I don’t want Daly to be pitied.”

      “Bah! you are backing out of it,” said the irritated Mr. Turnbull. “You’re afraid of a little cold water.”

      “No, I’m not,” said Blundell; “but it would be better in every way to save somebody else. She’ll see Daly standing there doing nothing, while I am struggling for my life. I’ve thought it all out very carefully. I know I’m not quick, but I’m sure, and when I make up my mind to do a thing, I do it. You ought to know that.”

      “That’s all very well,” said the other; “but who else is there to push in?”

      “That’s all right,” said Blundell, vaguely. “Don’t you worry about that; I shall find somebody.”

      Mr. Turnbull turned and cast a speculative eye along the quay. As a rule, he had great confidence in Blundell’s determination, but on this occasion he had his doubts.

      “Well, it’s a riddle to me,” he said, slowly. “I give it up. It seems— Halloa! Good heavens, be careful. You nearly had me in then.”

      “Did I?” said Blundell, thickly. “I’m very sorry.”

      Mr. Turnbull, angry at such carelessness, accepted the apology in a grudging spirit and trudged along in silence. Then he started nervously as a monstrous and unworthy suspicion occurred to him. It was an incredible thing to suppose, but at the same time he felt that there was nothing like being on the safe side, and in tones not quite free from significance he intimated his desire of changing places with his awkward friend.

      “It’s all right,” said Blundell, soothingly.

      “I know it is,” said Mr. Turnbull, regarding him fixedly; “but I prefer this side. You very near had me over just now.”

      “I staggered,” said Mr. Blundell.

      “Another inch and I should have been overboard,” said Mr. Turnbull, with a shudder. “That would have been a nice how d’ye do.”

      Mr. Blundell coughed and looked seaward. “Accidents will happen,” he murmured.

      They reached the end of the quay again and stood talking, and when they turned once more the sergeant was surprised and gratified at the ease with which he bore off Venia. Mr. Turnbull and Blundell followed some little way behind, and the former gentleman’s suspicions were somewhat lulled by finding that his friend made no attempt to take the inside place. He looked about him with interest for a likely victim, but in vain.

      “What are you looking at?” he demanded, impatiently, as Blundell suddenly came to a stop and gazed curiously into the harbour.

      “Jelly-fish,” said the other, briefly. “I never saw such a monster. It must be a yard across.”

      Mr. Turnbull stopped, but could see nothing, and even when Blundell pointed it out with his finger he had no better success. He stepped forward a pace, and his suspicions returned with renewed vigour as a hand was laid caressingly on his shoulder. The next moment, with a wild shriek, he shot suddenly over the edge and disappeared. Venia and the sergeant, turning hastily, were just in time to see the fountain which ensued on his immersion.

      “Oh, save him!” cried Venia.

      The sergeant ran to the edge and gazed in helpless dismay as Mr. Turnbull came to the surface and disappeared again. At the same moment Blundell, who had thrown off his coat, dived into the harbour and, rising rapidly to the surface, caught the fast-choking Mr. Turnbull by the collar.

      “Keep still,” he cried, sharply, as the farmer tried to clutch him; “keep still or I’ll let you go.”

      “Help!” choked the farmer, gazing up at the little knot of people which had collected on the quay.

      A stout fisherman who had not run for thirty years came along the edge of the quay at a shambling trot, with a coil of rope over his arm. John Blundell saw him and, mindful of the farmer’s warning about kissing of fingers, etc., raised his disengaged arm and took that frenzied gentleman below the surface again. By the time they came up he was very glad for his own sake to catch the line skilfully thrown by the old fisherman and be drawn gently to the side.

      “I’ll tow you to the steps,” said the fisherman; “don’t let go o’ the line.”

      Mr. Turnbull saw to that; he wound the rope round his wrist and began to regain his presence of mind as they were drawn steadily toward the steps. Willing hands drew them out of the water and helped them up on to the quay, where Mr. Turnbull, sitting in his own puddle, coughed up salt water and glared ferociously at the inanimate form of Mr. Blundell. Sergeant Daly and another man were rendering what they piously believed to be first aid to the apparently drowned, while the stout fisherman, with both hands to his mouth, was yelling in heart-rending accents for a barrel.

      “He—he—push—pushed me in,” gasped the choking Mr. Turnbull.

      Nobody paid any attention to him; even Venia, seeing that he was safe, was on her knees by the side of the unconscious Blundell.

      “He—he’s shamming,” bawled the neglected Mr. Turnbull.

      “Shame!” said somebody, without even looking round.

      “He pushed me in,” repeated Mr. Turnbull. “He pushed me in.”

      “Oh, father,” said Venia, with a scandalised glance at him, “how can you?”

      “Shame!” said the bystanders, briefly, as they, watched anxiously for signs of returning life on the part of Mr. Blundell. He lay still with his eyes closed, but his hearing was still acute, and the sounds of a rapidly approaching barrel trundled by a breathless Samaritan did him more good than anything.

      “Good-bye, Venia,” he said, in a faint voice; “good-bye.”

      Miss Turnbull sobbed and took his hand.

      “He’s shamming,” roared Mr. Turnbull, incensed beyond measure at the faithful manner in which Blundell was carrying out his instructions. “He pushed me in.”

      There was an angry murmur from the bystanders. “Be reasonable, Mr. Turnbull,” said the sergeant, somewhat sharply.

      “He nearly lost ‘is life over you,” said the stout fisherman. “As plucky a thing as ever I see. If I ‘adn’t ha’ been ‘andy with that there line you’d both ha’ been drownded.”

      “Give—my love—to everybody,” said Blundell, faintly. “Good-bye, Venia. Good-bye, Mr. Turnbull.”

      “Where’s that barrel?” demanded the stout fisher-man, crisply. “Going to be all night with it? Now, two of you–”

      Mr. Blundell, with a great effort, and assisted by Venia and the sergeant, sat up. He felt that he had made a good impression, and had no desire to spoil it by riding the barrel. With one exception, everybody was regarding him with moist-eyed admiration. The exception’s eyes were, perhaps, the moistest of them all, but admiration had no place in them.

      “You’re all being made fools of,” he said, getting up and stamping. “I tell you he pushed me over-board for the purpose.”

      “Oh, father! how can you?” demanded Venia, angrily. “He saved your life.”

      “He pushed me in,” repeated the farmer. “Told me to look at a jelly-fish and pushed me in.”

      “What for?” inquired Sergeant Daly.

      “Because—” said Mr. Turnbull. He looked at the unconscious sergeant, and the words on his lips died away in an inarticulate growl.

      “What for?” pursued the sergeant, in triumph. “Be reasonable, Mr. Turnbull. Where’s the reason in pushing you overboard and then nearly losing his life saving you? That would be a fool’s trick. It was as fine a thing as ever I saw.”

      “What you ‘ad, Mr. Turnbull,” said the stout fisherman,