Chapter Twelve.
We make another Slip.
I’m afraid that we thought very little about Bigley’s escape from a horrible death, for by nine o’clock the next morning he was over at the Bay, and while we were talking outside, Bob Chowne came trotting up, holding on to the mane of his father’s pony, for the doctor had ridden over to see my father.
Half an hour later we were down on the beach to look for our baskets and nets which had been covered by the tide, and which we were too much exhausted to hunt for after our escape.
For a long time we had no success, for, until the tide ran lower, we were not quite sure of the spot; but we hung about hour after hour till the cluster of rocks were uncovered, and as soon as the water was low enough we were down at the place, and, but for the labour necessary to bale out the lower pool, we should, I am sure, have crawled in again to try how it was Bigley was held.
It did not take much examination to show that, however, for it was plain enough now to see how one part of the opening was a good deal narrower than the other; and here it was that Bigley had become fast, never once striving in his horror to get back, but always forward like an animal in a trap.
As I stood there looking, the whole scene appeared to come back again, and I shuddered as I seemed to see my school-fellow’s agonised face gazing appealingly in ours, and for the moment the bright sunny day looked overcast.
“Come away,” I said nervously; “let’s look for the nets.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Bob, who had quite recovered his spirits and took up his usual manner; “look at old Sep! He’s frightened, and thinks it’s his turn to be stuck in the rock.”
“Never mind; let’s look for the nets,” said Bigley, who seemed to be more in sympathy with me, and we set to work, finding one before long, buried all but a scrap of the net in the beach sand and shingle.
This encouraged us, and we hunted with more vigour, finding another wedged in between some blocks of rock, and soon after we discovered something that we had certainly expected would have been swept out to sea, namely, one of the baskets.
It was the one which contained the crab, and it had been driven into a rock pool surrounded by masses of stone, which had held it as the tide retired.
To our great satisfaction the crab was still inside alive and uninjured; but we found no more relics of our expedition. The other baskets were gone with the eel and prawns, and the third net was wanting. I must except, though, one of Bigley’s shoes, which had been cast up four hundred yards from the rock pool, and lay at high-water mark in a heap of sea-weed, battered wreck-wood and shells.
I am not going to enumerate all our adventures during those holidays; but I must refer to one or two more before passing on for a time to the more serious matters in connection with the silver mine in the Gap, where, while we were enjoying ourselves on the shore or up one of the narrow glens baling out holes to catch the trout, business matters were progressing fast. Our mishap was soon forgotten, and we determined to have another prawning trip, for, as Bob Chowne said, there was no risk over it, if we didn’t go and stick ourselves between two stones ready for the tide to come in and drown us. “But it was an accident,” said Bigley gravely. “Oh, no, it wasn’t,” cried Bob; “an accident’s where you can’t help it—where a boat upsets, or a horse falls down, or a wheel falls off, or you slip over the edge of the cliff.”
“Well, that was an accident too,” I said; “wasn’t he nearly drowned?”
“No,” cried Bob, “not nearly; and how could it be an accident when he crept into the hole, and turned round and stuck fast when he tried to get out?”
It was of no use to argue with Bob that morning, as we three ran down to the shore after finding that old Uggleston’s lugger was at sea, crushing the weed under our feet, and enjoying the curious salt smell that ascended to our nostrils. We had another net, and a big basket, borrowed of our Sam. It was not so handy as our old ones, for two of us had to carry it; but as I said it would hold plenty, and we could lay a bit of old net over the prawns to keep them from flicking themselves out.
“I don’t believe we shall catch any to-day,” said Bob, who was in one of his hedgehog fits, as Bigley used to call them. But he was wrong, for after walking about a mile along the shore, so as to go right away from the cottages, the first pool we stopped at gave us three fine fat fellows.
In another we were more successful, and as we roamed: farther and farther away the better became our sport.
This time we went on past the Gap, and under the tremendous cliffs that kept the sun from shining down upon the shore in winter. Then on and on with our numbers always increasing, for we passed very few pools that did not contain one prawn at least.
“I tell you what,” said Bob, as we stopped to rest, net in hand; “we’ll go to old Big’s this afternoon, and get Mother Bonnet to boil the prawns, and then have a thorough good feast. You’ll find us some bread and butter, won’t you, Big?”
“Of course,” he replied; “but we haven’t got them home yet.”
“No,” said Bob, “we haven’t got them home; but you’re not going to get stuck in a hole this time, are you?”
Bigley shook his head, and the remarks were forgotten, as we discovered, just washed in by the tide, a good-sized cuttlefish, that was quite dead, however, having been killed I suppose by being bruised against the rocks, so we were not favoured with a shower of ink.
A little farther on we came to a bare smooth patch of dark sand, over which the sea ran gently, sweeping before it a rim of foam which sparkled and displayed iridescent colours like a soap-bubble. Here we found our first jelly-fish, a beautifully clear disc of transparency about the size of a penny bun, and from which, when we plunged it in the first rock pool, hung down quite a lovely fringe of the most delicate hues.
Perhaps it was too nearly dead from being washed ashore, for it did not sting, as some of these creatures do slightly, when encountered while bathing.
We thought the jelly-fish curious, but it was not good to eat, so it was left in the little rock pool with a few tiny shrimps, to get well or die, and we went on kicking over the little shells, getting our feet wet, and finding more prawn-haunted pools, as we made for one big rock which lay close to the water’s edge, a quarter of a mile farther on, where it stood up in the midst of a clump of smaller ones, the beach around being tolerably level for some distance.
“That’s where old Binnacle always goes when he wants to find a lobster,” said Bigley; “and I shouldn’t wonder if we get one, for he hasn’t been there lately.”
“How do you know?” I said.
“Because he hasn’t sold one, nor given us one, nor had one himself.”
“There, hark at him!” cried Bob. “How can you tell?”
“Easy enough.”
“But how?”
“Haven’t lobsters got shells?”
“Yes.”
“And aren’t they red?”
“Why, of course they are.”
“Well, don’t they always throw the shells out on the heap by the pig-sty?” cried Bigley. “And there hasn’t been one there since I came home. Old Bill has been too busy making a new net to go lobstering.”
“I say, what a day for a bathe!” cried Bob suddenly, as we approached the big rock which formed out here a point, from which a series of smaller rocks ran right to sea, for the heads of some were level with the surface, and others only appeared at times.
“Why, you couldn’t bathe here,” said Big; “you ought to know that.”
“Why not?” cried Bob.
“Because the tide hits against those rocks, and then runs right out to sea like the river runs down the Gap after a storm.”
“Oh, I don’t believe all these old stories,” cried Bob contemptuously; “and suppose it did run out, couldn’t I swim out of the stream and come ashore?”
“No.”
“Oh, couldn’t I? Precious soon let you see.”
“Hi! Look there,” cried Bigley, “there’s father’s boat.”
“Where?” I said.
“Out yonder. He has been with Binnacle Bill to Swincombe, and that’s them coming back.”
“Why, you can’t see anything but a bit of sail,” cried Bob scoffingly, as he shaded his eyes and looked far-off into the west.
“No, but I know the shape of it,” cried Bigley. “There isn’t another boat hereabouts with a sail like that.”
“I don’t believe you know it,” cried Bob. “It’s a Frenchman, or a Dutchman, or a Welsh boat.”
“Well, you’ll see,” said Bigley decisively, and the matter dropped, for we were close up to the big rock now, a mass that stood about a dozen feet above the beach, and to our great delight there were several little pools about, all of which seemed to be well occupied by the toothsome delicacies we sought.
The baskets were set down and we were soon hard at work catching prawn after prawn; but, though we peered into every crack, and routed about as far as we could reach, there was no sign of a lobster large or small.
“Never mind,” said Bob sourly, “they’re rather out of season if you do catch them now. I don’t mind.”
For another half hour or so, with the tide coming whispering and lapping in, we went on prawning, getting a dozen fine ones.
Then Bob insisted upon bathing, and it was only by an effort we stopped him from going into the water at so dangerous a spot.
It was Big who took off his attention at last, by telling him that he could not scale the big rock and get on the top.
“Tchah!” cried Bob sneeringly; “why, I could almost hop on it.”
We laughed at him, and he began to peer about for one of the surrounding pieces to form a step to help him part of the way, but all were too distant, the great stone lying quite isolated. There was one spot, though, where the big stone was split, as if some gigantic wedge had been driven in to open it a little way, and here, as it was encrusted with limpets, there seemed to be a good prospect for us to climb up the roughened sides.
As it proved it was like many tasks in life, it looked more difficult than it really was, and by the exercise of a little agility and some mutual help we contrived to get to the top, where there was a large depression like a caldron, scooped out by the action of the sea upon a heavy boulder lying therein, and which looked as if, when the waves beat, it must be driven round and round and to and fro.
We all sat down with our legs in the hole, following Bigley’s example as he set himself to watch the coming of his father’s boat, which was growing plainer now every minute, and trying, by spreading all the sail she could, to reach the Gap.
“I wonder how long she’ll be?” said Bob, sitting there with his chin upon his hands.
“About an hour,” replied Bigley.
“What! Coming that little way? Why, she’s close here.”
“It isn’t close here, and the boat’s a good six miles away, I know,” replied Bigley. “Distances are deceiving by the sea-side.”
“Hark at the doctor,” cried Bob; “he’s going to give us a lecture. I say, this isn’t school.”
It was very pleasant seated there on that smooth, warm platform of rock in the glowing sunshine, and with the soft sea-breeze fanning our cheeks. There was plenty of room, and before long we were all lying down in various attitudes. Bob turned himself into a spread-eagle by lying upon his back, and tilting his cap over his nose as he announced that he was going to sleep.
We both laughed and did not believe him, as we each took up the position most agreeable to him, Bigley stretching himself upon his breast, folding his arms and placing his chin upon them, so as to gaze at his father’s boat with undivided attention.
As for me, I lay on my side to stare at the great wall of cliff that ran along the land, and curved over and over into great hills and mounds.
It was very beautiful to watch the many tints in the distance, and the bright colours of the broken rock. The upper parts were of a velvety green; then in the hollows where the oak-trees flourished there were endless tints, against which the soft grey of the gulls, as they floated along, seemed to stand out bright and clear.
We three lads had been walking and climbing and exerting ourselves for hours now, and the strange restful sensation of stretching one’s self on that warm, smooth mass of rock was delicious.
To make it more agreeable, the soft wind fanned our faces, and the sea seemed to be whispering in a curious lulling way that was delightful.
I remember raising myself a little to look at Bob Chowne in his lazy attitude. Then I stared at Bigley, who had doubled back his long legs, as he watched the boat, whose sails seemed to be coming nearer now, and then I sank back in my former attitude, to gaze at the cliffs and the soft blue sky flecked with silvery gauzy clouds.
Then one of the big grey gulls fixed my attention, and I lay staring at it hard, and watching its movements, as I wondered why it was that it should keep flying to and fro, for nothing apparently, turning itself so easily by a movement of the tail, and curving round and round without an effort.
That gull completely fascinated me. Sometimes it floated softly so near that I could plainly see its clear ringed eye and the colour of its beak, the soft white of its head and under parts, the delicate grey of its back, and the black tips of its wings, which formed soft bends that sustained the great bird with the slightest exertion. For now and then it beat the air a little, then the wings remained motionless a minute at a time, and the secret of flying seemed to me to be to float about in that clear transparent air, just as a fish did in the sea.
It was very wonderful to watch it, feeling so dreamy and restful the while. The gull seemed to have fixed its eyes on me, and to know that I was noting all its graceful evolutions, and I felt that it was flying and floating and gliding to and fro, and round and round, now up, now down, on purpose to show off its powers to me, for it never occurred to me that the bird was waiting till my eyes were closed to make a pounce down upon the big basket and help itself to the prawns.
No, it all seemed done for my special benefit, and lulled by the lapping of the sea, and with the fanning motion of the gull’s wings having a curiously drowsy effect, I lay there watching—watching, till I seemed to be able to float with the gull, and to be gliding onward and onward through space, up and down, up and down, in a soft billowy, heaving movement, with the blue sky above me, the green cliff-side draped with oak and ivy below, and all about me, and pervading me and sustaining me as the sea did when I swam, there was the soft pure air.
Was I a gull or myself? I did not know, only that I seemed to be floating deliciously on with wide-spread invisible wings, and that there was no such thing as the earth and shore, over which I laboriously plodded, for me.
It was one soft dreamy ecstasy, such as comes to the weary sleeping in the summer breeze out in the open air. Now and then I seemed to hear the wild softened harshness of the gull’s cry, then all was still again, and I was floating on and on, wishing nothing, wanting nothing, only to go on, when all at once a huge roc-like bird seemed to sweep over between me and the sunshine, to grasp me as Sindbad was seized, and raise me up.
But this roc spoke and cried harshly:
“Quick! Wake up! You have been to sleep.”
“Sleep?” I said, rousing myself. “Sleep?”
“Yes; we’ve all been to sleep, and—Here, Bob! Wake up! Wake up!”
He shook Bob Chowne, who was so sound that it was with difficulty he could be made to sit up, and in that little interval I realised why it was that Bigley looked so scared.
It was plain enough: tired out with our prawning, we had been thoughtless enough to let our weariness get the better of us, and while we had slept the enemy had not only approached, but surrounded us and cut us off from the shore. In fact, as we stared about us, a wave struck the rock and sent its soft spray right up to where we were standing.
“Here, what’s the matter?” cried Bob. “I say, what is it? Oh, I say, where are the prawns?”
Prawns? They and the baskets were far away now, while the nets might be anywhere. Between us and the shore the water for a good hundred yards was six feet deep at least, and there was a swim of a hundred and fifty before we could begin to wade, while, if we did not start at once, there would be a swim of nearly half a mile, for the points of the little bay where we were would soon be covered, the rocks were perpendicular, and to stay in the bay was to be drowned.
Chapter Thirteen.
A Perilous Swim.
“I say, what shall we do?” cried Bob.
“We must take off our clothes and swim for it,” said Bigley.
“No, no,” I cried, for the idea was appalling. “Let’s stay here.”
“What, and be swept off?” said Bob. “No; Bigley’s right. We must swim for it. No, I see! There’s your father’s lugger, Big. Let them come and take us off.”
“They durstn’t come in on account of the rocks,” said Bigley slowly.
“Then, let them send the boat. Let’s hail them.”
“Yes, they might send the boat,” said Bigley thoughtfully, “and they would if we could make them understand.”
“Shout,” cried Bob.
“What’s the use when they’re nearly two miles away.”
“’Tisn’t so far, is it?” I said in an awe-stricken whisper.
“Almost,” he said. “The wind’s against them, and they’re beating up very slowly, and keeping off so as to run straight in when they get past the point. You see they don’t want to go in at the Gap till it’s high-water and the pebble bar is covered.”
“But they must hear us,” cried Bob, “and send a boat to fetch us off. I don’t know that I could swim so far as the shore, and we should have to undress and lose all our clothes. Here, ahoy! Boat—oh! Ahoy!”
The sound died away in the vast space, but there was no movement aboard of the lugger, and after each had hailed in turn, and we had all shouted together, we looked at each other in despair.
“Oh,” cried Bob, “what a set of stupids we are! Only just now we went and got into trouble, and lost our nets and baskets, and now we’ve been and done it again. Here, Big, it’s all your fault, what are we going to do?”
Bigley looked to sea, and he looked to shore, and then down at the water, that kept lapping round the rock and rising and falling. The small blocks all about us had long been covered, and at its most quiescent times the sea was now within some three feet of the top, while as the waves swayed and heaved, they ran up at times nearly to where we stood.
The peril did not seem very great, because we did not quite realise our position; but stood disputing as to which would be the better proceeding—to try and swim ashore, or to wait till we could attract the notice of those on board the boat.
Several attempts were made to do the latter, for the stripping to swim with the loss of our clothes was not a course to be thought upon with equanimity; and though we shouted and waved handkerchiefs, the lugger pursued its slow way, and it was quite plain that we were not seen.
Meanwhile the water was steadily rising up the sides of our little island rock, and our position was beginning to wear a more serious aspect.
“We shall have to swim ashore, boys,” said Bigley, speaking in a tone which seemed to indicate that he would rather do anything else.
He looked towards the cliff as he spoke, and being so much taller than we, of course he had a much better view.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, with a look of horror, “the tide is round both points, and we shall have to swim right along ever so far before we can land.”
“No, no,” cried Bob, “let’s swim straight in.”
“I tell you,” cried Bigley, “if we do, we shall be drowned.”
“What nonsense!” cried Bob. “Why, we’d climb up the rocks.”
“There is not a place where you could climb,” said Bigley gloomily. “I know every yard all along here, and there isn’t a single spot where you could get up the cliff.”
“It’s too far to swim,” I said gloomily. “I know I can’t go so far as that. Could you, Bob?”
He shook his head.
“Oh, yes, you could,” cried Bigley excitedly. “It would be swimming with the stream, you know, and it would carry us along—I mean the tide would, and you’ve only got to think you could do it, and you would.”
Bob Chowne shook his head, and I began to feel chilled and oppressed by the task we had before us.
“No, I couldn’t swim so far,” cried Bob suddenly. “It would take a strong man who could keep on for hours to do that.”
“I tell you that you could do it,” cried Bigley, who seemed to be quite passionate now. “Don’t talk like that, Bob, or you’ll frighten Sep Duncan out of trying.”
“I’m not going to try,” I said gloomily. “It would be no use. I could swim to the shore but not round the point.”
“What’s the good of talking like that?” cried Bigley. “You both can swim it, and you must.”
“Why, I don’t believe you could, Big,” cried Bob in a whimpering tone.
“I do,” said the great fellow doggedly, “and I’m going to try, and so are you two fellows.”
“That we are not,” we cried together.
“Yes, you are, for it’s our only chance, unless they see us from the boat. You’ll have to try, for the water will be up and over here before long, and what will you do then?”
“Drown, I s’pose,” said Bob.
“Nonsense!” cried Bigley, who astonished us by the eager business way he had put on. “Who’s going to stand still and drown, when he can swim to a safe place? Here, let’s try and get ’em to see us aboard the lugger,” he cried. “All together! Let’s wave our caps and handkerchiefs.”
We did all wave our caps and handkerchiefs, together and separately, but the boat went slowly on, as if there was no one in danger, and we turned and looked at each other in despair.
“They must be asleep,” said Bob angrily. “Oh, it’s too bad.”
“No,” said Bigley sadly. “They can’t be asleep, because there’s someone steering, and someone else attending to the sails when they go about. It’s only because they cannot see us. The rocks and cliffs hide us from them.”
“Why, we can see them,” said Bob bitterly.
“Yes, because they are against the sky,” I said. “We are against the cliff. Oh, look at that!”
My schoolmates wanted no telling, for they were looking aghast at the way in which the water had washed up, and lapped over the edge of the rock upon which we stood. It fell directly, but it had risen high enough to show that in a few minutes it would sweep right to where we were, and in a few more completely cover the stone.
At this Bigley began to wave his jacket frantically, but the boat still glided slowly on with its sail lit up by the sunshine, and the sea glittering as far as we could see.
“It’s of no use; we must swim,” cried Bigley; but we neither of us stirred, though he began resolutely to take off his big shoes. We saw what he was doing, but our eyes were strained towards the boat, which was much nearer now, making a long reach in towards the land, and it seemed so strange that those on board should be calmly sitting there, while we were in such peril, looking longingly for a sign that we were seen.
And still the water slowly rose, threatening several times, and then making a bold leap which carried it right over the stone, though it barely wetted our feet.
As it came over, Bigley stooped down quickly and caught up his shoes and clothes to keep them dry, and it seemed very ridiculous to me that he should trouble himself about that, when in a few more minutes they must be afloat.
Another wave and another came over us, and though I kept on waving my handkerchief at times, there seemed to be no hope of help from the lugger. So in a fit of despair, after a glance towards the shore, I began to follow Bigley’s example and undress, feeling that it was forced upon me, and that I must make an effort and swim for my life.
Bob Chowne stood with his forehead all wrinkled up watching me for a few minutes, and then he began to undress slowly; but a wave came and rose right up to our knees as it swept in, telling us plainly enough that before many minutes had passed we should be unable to stand there, and in frantic haste we tore off our garments, and followed Bigley’s lead in tying them together in a bundle, in the faint hope of being able to take them in our teeth and carry them ashore.
We were ready none too soon, for the tide rose rapidly, and it was evident that the time had come for our plunge.
“I’ll go first, boys, and you follow,” cried Bigley. “Now, don’t hurry, and try and keep together. I won’t swim fast. Ready?”
There was no answer.
“Are you ready, I say? I want to give the word, and for us all to take the water together.”
Still neither of us answered; and we stood there, bundles in hand, unwilling to quit the firm rock on which we stood knee-deep, for the treacherous sea.
“I say, boys! Are you ready!” cried Bigley again.
Still there was no answer, and the reluctance to stir would have continued longer, but an unexpected termination was put to our indecision by a larger wave sweeping over us, and making Bob Chowne slip and stagger.
He tried hard to recover himself, and we to catch him, but the wet rock was bad for the feet, or he placed his foot upon a piece of sea-weed. At all events over he went with a splash and disappeared.
We two followed, bundles and all, and as Bob rose we were one on each side, and started swimming level with the shore so as to round the point between us and the western side of the Gap.
Driven to it as we were, Bob Chowne and I forgot our dread and began to swim steadily and well; but we had not been in the water five minutes before I found that we had undertaken to do that which was impossible, and that we had quite forgotten all about this being a dangerous spot for bathing.
I think we all discovered it about the same moment, but Bigley was the first to speak.
“Be cool, boys, as the doctor says,” he called out to us. “This is no use. We’re not going with the tide, but fighting against it.”
“But the tide’s coming in,” I said.
“Yes, underneath,” cried Bigley; “but the top part of the water’s running out like a mill-race, and we must go with it now. Follow me.”
There was no help for it. The tide carried us along into a tremendous current, caused by the meeting of two waters at the point formed by the ridge of rocks which ran down into the sea, and to my horror, as I swam steadily on, still holding to my bundle, I found that we were in a line with the cliff about which I had watched the gull flying, but that it was getting farther and farther away.
It was all plain enough. We were well in the fierce current that ran off the point, and being carried straight out to sea.
My first idea was to shout this to my companions; but I felt that if I did I should frighten them, and I knew well enough that as soon as anyone grew frightened when he was swimming the best half of his power had gone.
It was a great thing to recollect, and I held my tongue. It was hard work, and something seemed to keep prompting me to shout the bad news, but somehow I mastered it, and instead of swimming faster made myself take my strokes more slowly, so as to save my breath.
Bigley told me afterwards, and so did Bob Chowne, that they felt just the same, and would not shout for fear of frightening me, swimming steadily on, though where we did not know.
“I say, how warm the water is!” cried Bigley; and we others said it was. Then I thought of something to say.
We had each tied our clothes up as tightly as we could in our pocket-handkerchiefs, and so it was a long time before they were regularly saturated and heavy.
“I say,” I cried, “my bundle’s just like a cork, and holds me up beautiful. How are yours?”
Bob Chowne panted out that his was better, and to prove hew good and buoyant his was Bigley thrust it before him, and swam after it, giving it pushes as he went.
All this took up our attention for a little while from the horror of our position, for a horrible position it was indeed. It was a glorious sunny day, and sea and sky were beautiful, but the fierce current that set off from the point was sweeping us rapidly away, and it was only a question of how long we could keep on swimming—a quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour—and then first one and then another must sink, unless in our efforts to save the first weak one we all went down together, and the glittering sea flowed over our heads with only a few bubbles of air to show where we had been.
We must have been swimming twenty minutes when Bigley uttered a shout, and looking up, Bob and I for the first time caught sight of a little dinghy coming towards us, and far beyond it the lugger lying with her sails flapping in the breeze.
The boat was a long way off, but the man in it had evidently seen us, and was coming down to our help, and a thrill of exultation ran through me, as I struck out more vigorously to reach the haven of safety.
The minute before we were all swimming steadily and well, but the sight of help coming seemed to have completely unnerved us, and in place of taking slow long regular strokes, and steady inspirations, with the sides of our heads well down in the water, we all quickened our strokes and strained our heads above the surface, while, as if moved by the same thought, we all together shouted “Boat!”
“Ahoy!” came back from what seemed a terrible distance, and the feeling of fear I had begun to experience increased more and more.
A couple of minutes earlier I had not thought about the distance I could swim, but had kept on swimming. Now I could think of nothing else but was it possible that I could keep on long enough for the boat to reach me; and, instead of steadily trying to decrease the distance, and so help the boatman, I began to make very bad progress indeed.
“Hooray!” shouted Bigley just then. “Keep up, boys, and don’t lose your bundles. It’s father, and he’ll soon pick us up.”
Bundles?—bundles? Where was my bundle?
I dared not turn my head to look, but it was not by me, and I must have let it float away just when most excited by the coming of the boat, but I could say nothing then.
“Steady!” shouted Bigley again, checking his own speed, for he had been getting ahead of us, and he waited till we were abreast of him, both swimming too heavily and fast.
“Don’t do that,” he cried. “Go steady. Go—”
He said no more, poor fellow, for the curious dread that unnerves people in the water, and robs them of the power and judgment that are their saving, seemed to have attacked him, and he began to swim in a more and more laboured fashion.
His example affected us, and away went all coolness. We were all swimming, and the tide was carrying us along towards the boat, that seemed to be getting farther away instead of nearer to my dimming eyes. Then in my rapid splashing I struck up the water, and grew confused; and feeling all at once that I was regularly exhausted, I turned over on my back to float.
It was an unlucky movement, for I did it hastily and with the consequence that my head went under. I inhaled a quantity of the stinging briny salt water, and raising my head as I choked and sputtered, I turned back again, struck out two or three times, and then began to beat the surface frantically like a dog which has been thrown into the water for the first time.
I can remember no more of what occurred during the next few minutes, only that I was staring up at the sky through dazzling water-drops; then that all was dark, and then light again, and not light as it was before. Then it was once more dark, and then I was sitting in a boat half blind, shivering, and helpless, with the boat rocking about tremendously, and Bob Chowne over the side holding on to the gunwale with one hand, to my wrist with the other.
It all seemed very wild and strange; but my senses were coming back fast, and in an indistinct manner I saw someone swimming and plashing the water about twenty yards from the boat. It was a man in a blue woollen shirt, and his head was bald and shining in the sun, as I saw it for a moment, and then, whoever it was, reared himself high as he could in the water, and then struck off and swam away from us out to sea.
He did not go far, but stopped suddenly and shouted to us; and as he did so, I saw a gleam of something white, and then that he was holding someone’s face above water.
Chapter Fourteen.
Just in Time.
“Ahoy, lad!” he shouted. “Shove a scull over the stern, and scull her this way.”
This roused me, and I jumped up to seize a scull, but felt giddy and nearly fell, for Bob Chowne had hold of my wrist.
“Take hold of the gunwale, Bob,” I panted, as I tried again, and this time felt better, getting an oar over behind, and sending the boat along, as I had learned to years before.
It was slow and awkward work, with Bob hanging on to the side with his eyes fixed, and his face white; but I got her along, and before I had been sculling many minutes, a great brown hand was thrown over on the opposite side to where Bob clung, and Jonas Uggleston said hoarsely:
“Lay in your oar, mate, and lean over, and take hold of Bigley here. Get your arm well under him. That’s right. Keep his head out of the water. I’m about beat for a bit.”
I obeyed him in a dreamy way, getting Bigley’s arm over into the boat, while I knelt down and put mine round him, and held him close to the side.
“Can you hold on, youngster?” said old Jonas hoarsely. This was to Bob Chowne, who stared at him wildly, and did not speak.
“Nice chance for me,” growled old Jonas. “There, hold fast, my lads. I’m going to get in over the starn.”
The boat rose and fell and rocked as he came round, passed me hand over hand, to pause by the stern, and I thought he was going to climb in; but he altered his mind, and went on round by where Bob Chowne clung, held on with one hand, while he thrust his right arm under the water, and the next moment he had hoisted Bob right up and rolled him over into the boat, where he lay for a few moments apparently quite helpless.
“Now, young Duncan,” said old Jonas, “you hold him fast. I’ll get in this side. She won’t go over.”
It was done in a moment; he let himself sink down, and turn, gave a spring as I turned my head round to watch him; the gunwale of the boat seemed to go down level with the water, and he was on board, while, before I could realise it, he was bending over me to get his arms under poor Big’s and drag him into the boat, this time sending the gunwale so low that a quantity of water came in as well.
Old Jonas set his son up in the stern with his back against the rowlock, and it was no easy job, for Big was limp, and tremendously heavy; but the bumping about seemed to do him some good, for, just as I was about to ask in a voice full of awe if he was dead, poor Bigley uttered a low groan.
“Hah! He’s coming to, then,” said old Jonas, panting heavily, as he seated himself on the middle thwart. “Here, you young doctor, take that pannikin, and bale out some of that water you’re lying in. You don’t want another bath, do you?”
Bob Chowne got up on to his knees in the bottom of the boat, shivering and blue, and stared wildly at us all in turn.
“Cold, eh?” growled old Jonas. “Well, then, I’ll bale, and you two row to the lugger.”
He glanced round at his son, who was showing signs of returning animation; but it evoked no sympathy before us, whatever he might have felt, for he only frowned as, in a shivering mechanical way, we two wretched boys seized an oar apiece, sat down on the wet thwarts and began to row.
“Now, then,” shouted old Jonas, “look where you’re going. Pull, doctor! Easy, captain! That’s better.”
Between his words he kept sending out pannikins of water rapidly to ease the boat, for it was above our ankles as we sat and pulled.
“Nice fellows all of you!” grumbled old Jonas. “Why, you all look blue. Fool’s trick! Who put it up?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean, Mr Uggleston,” I said.
“Who proposed to swim off to the lugger? Was it Bigley?”
“N–no, Mr Uggleston,” I panted, half hysterically, as I tugged at the oar, an example followed by Bob Chowne, who was very silent and very blue.
“Soon as I get you aboard, I’ll give you all a good rope’s-ending, and chance what your fathers say,” grumbled old Uggleston, as he sent the water flashing over the side. “I suppose it was my Bigley as set you at it, wasn’t it?”
“No, sir,” I said, as I rapidly grew more composed now. “We were on the rock yonder, and had to swim for it. We wanted to get to shore.”
“And the current took you out, eh? Of course it would. Then you weren’t swimming for the lugger, eh?”
“Oh, no, sir,” I cried; “we had forgotten all about the boat.”
“Then, where were you going to swim to—Swansea?” he cried.
“I don’t know, sir,” I said dolefully.
“No more do I,” he snarled. “’Cross the sea to Ireland, eh? And no biscuit and water. Ah, you ought to be all rope’s-ended. How came you on the rock?”
I told him.
“Lucky I saw you all standing on it white-skinned against the black rocks. I see you all dive in and took my spy-glass, and see you swimming this way, and when I told Binnacle Bill, he said just what I thought, that you was swimming out to the lugger, and wouldn’t do it, and so I took the boat and come to you, and I’m sorry I did now.”
“Sorry, sir?” I said.
“Ay, sorry. You’re a set o’ young swabs. What’s the good of either of you but to give trouble. Here, where are your clothes? Under the cliff?”
“No, sir,” I said dolefully. “We undressed on the big flat rock there, and tied them up in bundles.”
“Bundles? Where are they then?”
“Lost mine,” said Bob, speaking for the first time.
“Oh, you’re coming round then, are you?” cried old Jonas. “You’ve lost yours then; and has my Bigley lost all his kit?”
“Yes, sir; we’ve all lost our bundles, unless they get thrown up by the tide.”
“Which they won’t,” snarled old Jonas. “Rope’s end it is, for if I don’t thrash that big ugly cub of mine as soon as I get him aboard, I’ll—Now then, what are you yawing about that way for? Easy, captain! Pull, doctor, will you? Now, both together. Regular stroke. That’s better. And so’s that,” he said, as he scooped out the last few drops of water with the tin pannikin, and finished off by sopping the remaining moisture with a piece of coarse flannel stuff which he wrung out over the side.
Bob and I did not speak, but tugged at our oars, as absurd-looking a crew as was ever seen upon the Devon coast, while we kept looking pityingly at poor Bigley.
Poor fellow! He had placed his arms one on either side, resting upon the gunwale, and appeared to be hard set to keep his head up from his chest. Then he had one or two violent fits of coughing, and ended by sitting back in the bottom of the boat with a weary sigh and closing his eyes.
“Look, sir, look!” I cried in agony, for I thought Bigley must be dying.
“Well, I am looking at him, boy. He’s coming round. I can’t do anything for him here, can I? Pull hard, you young swabs, both of you, and let’s get aboard. I don’t know what folks want to have boys for.”
We rowed hard, bending well to our oars, and after a few minutes I ventured to speak again, for Bigley looked terribly ill.
“Do you think he’s getting better, sir?” I said.
“Better, boy? Yes,” he said, not unkindly, for I suppose my anxiety about his son moved him. “He’ll be all right when I’ve warmed and laced him up with the rope’s end. I’m going to make you all skip as soon as I get you aboard and there’s room to move.”
“But he looks so ill, sir,” I said, quite ignoring the rope’s-ending.
“Of course he does, my lad. So would you if you had gone down as far as he did, and swallowed as much water. Easy. In oars.”
I did not know we had rowed so far, but just then the boat bumped up against the side of the lugger, and old Jonas rose, took the painter as he stepped into the bows, and handed it to Binnacle Bill, whose grim old face relaxed into a grin as he saw our plight.
“What have you got, Master Uggles’on?” he said. “White seals?”
“Ay, something o’ the sort,” grumbled old Jonas. “Here, boys, on board with you.”
We needed no second order, but scrambled over the side into the lugger, while, at a word from his master, Binnacle Bill unbolted the piece of the lugger’s bulwarks that answered the purpose of a gangway, and as, by main force, old Jonas lifted up Bigley, the old sailor leaned down, put his arm round the poor limp fellow, and lifted him on deck, where he lay almost without motion.
The next thing was to make fast the little boat astern, after which Binnacle Bill seized the tiller, the sails filled, and the boat began to glide through the sunny sea, while Bob and I picked out the sunniest spot we could find, and watched old Jonas as he bent over Bigley and poured a few drops of spirit between his teeth from a bottle he had fetched from the little cabin.
“Rowing’s put you two right,” said Jonas. “Ah, I thought that would do him good.”
Certainly it did, for in a few minutes’ time Bigley was able to sit up in an oil-skin coat of his father’s, while we two were accommodated with a couple of Jersey shirts, which when worn as the only garment are nice and warm, but anything but becoming.
The little lugger tacked and tacked again before we could make the mouth of the Gap; and, probably because he was too busy over Bigley and the boat, old Jonas said no more about the rope’s end, but ran us right in over the pebble bar into the little river, when Binnacle Bill was sent over to our cottage to fetch some clothes for me and Bob, he being about my size, and till they came we lay in old Jonas’s bed.
Then a tremendous tea was eaten, Bigley being well enough to join in, and afterwards in cool of the evening old Jonas rowed us round and along the coast to see if we could pick up our bundles; but they had either sunk or gone off to sea, and we returned without.
Bigley was evidently very poorly, but he wouldn’t give up, and started to walk part of the way back with us.
I noted one thing as we were going. Bob Chowne and I held out our hands to say “Good-night,” and to thank old Jonas for saving our lives.
“Oh, it was nothing,” he said, shaking hands very warmly with Bob Chowne, but taking no notice of mine. “It’s all right. Good-bye, lads, but don’t do it again.”
We said we would not, and started off home, where we both expected severe scoldings; but before we had gone fifty yards up the cliff path old Jonas hailed us with a stentorian, “Ahoy!”
“What is it, father?” shouted Bigley.
“Bring those boys back,” roared old Jonas. “I forgot to give ’em the rope’s end.”
I need not tell you we didn’t go back. But when we parted from Bigley half a mile further on, I said to him:
“Why wouldn’t your father shake hands with me?”
“Hush! Don’t take any notice,” said Bigley in low voice; “he’s very angry still about Captain Duncan buying the Gap and finding the silver mine. That’s all!”
“That’s all!” Bigley said. But it was not.
Chapter Fifteen.
Back to School.
I tried very hard not to meet Doctor Chowne when he next came over to our cottage, which was two days after the escape from drowning, for he was very frequently in confab with my father.
They went into the little parlour, and so as to be out of the way I went into the cliff garden to watch the sea seated astride of one of the gates; but, as luck would have it, my father and the doctor came out to talk in the garden, and as there was no way of escape without facing them, I had to remain where I was and put on the boldest front I could.
“Oh, you’re there, are you, Mr Sep?” exclaimed the doctor grimly.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“That’s right; I only wanted to ask a favour of you.”
“What is it, sir?” I said.
“Oh, wait a minute and I’ll tell you,” said the doctor in his grimmest way. “It was only this. You see I’m a very busy man, twice as busy as I used to be since your father has taken to consulting me. What I want you to do is this—”
He stopped short and stared at me till I grew uncomfortable.
“This, my lad,” he continued. “To save time, I want you to tell me when you are going to try next to kill my boy.”
“To kill Bob, sir?”
“Yes, I want to be ready, as I’ve so little time to spare. I want to order mourning from Exeter, and to give orders for the funeral.”
“I—I don’t understand you, sir,” I stammered.
“Not understand me, my lad! Why, I spoke plainly enough. You’ve tried to kill my Bob twice; third time never fails.”
“Doctor Chowne!” I exclaimed.
“Your most humble servant, sir,” he continued sarcastically. “I only wanted to add, that I should like you to do it as soon as you can, for he is costing me a great deal for clothes and boots.”
“There, there, Chowne,” said my father, taking pity upon me, “boys will be boys. I daresay your chap was just as bad as mine, and old Uggleston’s baby quite their equal.”
“They lead my Bob into all the mischief,” cried the Doctor sharply.
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt,” said my father in his driest way.
“And I should like to know as near as I can when it’s to come to an end?”
“There, there, never mind,” said my father good-humouredly. “Give them another chance, and if they spoil these clothes we’ll send into Bristol for some sail-cloth, and have ’em rigged out in that.”
“Sail-cloth!” cried the doctor, “old carpet you mean. That’s the only thing for them.”
“Holidays will soon be over, Chowne, and we shall be rid of them.”
“Yes, that’s a comfort,” said the doctor; and, as he turned away, I looked appealingly at my father, who gave me a dry look, and taking it to mean that I might go, I slipped off and went in to Ripplemouth.
I soon found Bob, sitting in a very ragged old suit, out of which he had grown two years before, and he looked so comical with his arms far through his sleeves, and his legs showing so long beneath his trouser bottoms, than I burst out laughing.
“Yah! That’s just like you,” cried Bob viciously. “I never saw such a chap. Got plenty of clothes, and it don’t matter to you; but look at me!”
“Well, I was looking at you,” I said. “What an old guy you are!”
“Do you want me to hit you on the nose, Sep Duncan?” he said.
“Why, of course not,” I said. “I came over to play, not fight. Where are your Sunday clothes?”
“Where are they?” snarled Bob, speaking as if I had touched him on a very sore spot. “Why, locked up in the surgery cupboard along with the ’natomy bones and the sticking-plaster roll.”
“What! Has your father locked them up?”
“Yes, he has locked them up, and says he isn’t going to run all over the country seeing patients to find me in clothes to lose—just as if I could help it.”
“But haven’t you been measured for some more?”
“Yes, but they won’t be done yet, and father says I’m to go on wearing these the rest of the time I’m at home.”
I looked at him from top to toe as he stood before me, and it was of no use to try to keep my countenance. I could not, and the more I tried the more I seemed to be obliged to laugh.
As for Bob he ground his teeth and clenched his hands, but this only made him look the more comic, and I threw myself in a chair and fairly roared, till he came at me like an angry bull; but as I made no resistance, only laughed, he lowered his fists.
“I can’t help it, Bob; I was obliged to laugh,” I cried. “There, you may laugh at me now; but you do look so droll. Have you been out?”
“Been out? In these? Of course I haven’t. How can I? No: I’m a prisoner, and all the rest of my holiday time is going to be spoiled.”
“Oh, I say, don’t talk like that, old boy,” I cried. “Why didn’t you keep the suit I lent you?”
“I don’t want to be dependent on you for old clothes,” he said haughtily.
“Well, I’d rather wear them than those you have on, Bob. Oh, I say, you do look rum!”
“If you say that again I shall hit you,” cried Bob fiercely.
“Oh, very well, I won’t say it,” I said; “but I say, wouldn’t you wear a suit of old Big’s?”
I said it quite seriously, but he regularly glared and seemed as if he were going to fly at me, but he neither moved nor spoke.
“Never mind about your clothes,” I said. “Big’s sure to be over before long. Let’s get out on the cliff, or down by the shore, or go hunting up in the moor, or something.”
“What, like this?” said Bob, getting up to turn round before me and show me how tight his clothes were.
“Well, what does it matter?” I said. “Nobody will see us.”
“It isn’t seeing you,” he replied, “it’s seeing me. No, I sha’n’t go out till I get some clothes.”
Bob kept his word, and for the rest of the holidays when I went out it always used to be with Bigley Uggleston. But we did not neglect poor Bob, for we went to see him nearly every day, and played games with him in the garden, and finished the gooseberries, and began the apples, contriving to enjoy ourselves pretty well.
As for the doctor, it was his way of dealing with his son, and I suppose he thought he was right; but it was very unpleasant, and kept poor Bob out of many a bit of enjoyment, those clothes being locked away.
I said that Bob would not go out. I ought to have said, by daylight, for he used to go with us after dark down to the end of the tiny pier, where we sat with our legs swinging over the water, each holding a fishing-line and waiting for any fish that might be tempted to take the raw mussel stuck upon our hooks.
But somehow that narrow escape of ours seemed to act like a damper upon the rest of our holidays, and I spent a good deal of my time with Bigley, watching the preparations made by the masons at the works in the Gap.
We all declared that we were not sorry when one morning old Teggley Grey’s cart stopped at our gate to take up my box. Bob Chowne’s was already in, and he was sitting upon it, while Bigley was half-way up the slope leading over the moor waiting by the road-side with his.
I said “Good-bye” to my father, who shook my hand warmly.
“Learn all you can, Sep,” he said, “and get to be a man, for you have a busy life before you, and before long I shall want you to help me.”
I climbed in, and old Teggley drew out the corners of his lips and grinned as if he was glad that Bob Chowne was so miserable. For Bob did not move, only sat with his hands supporting his face, staring down before him, bent, miserable, and dejected.
“What’s the matter, Bob?” I said, trying to be cheerful. “Got the toothache?”
“Yes,” he said sourly, “all over.”
“Get out! What is it? Father made you take some physic?”
“Yes, pills. Verbum nasticusis, and bully draught after.”
“What! Has he been scolding you?”
“Scolding me! He never does anything else. I sha’n’t stand it much longer. I shall run off to sea and be a cabin-boy.”
“Hi, hi, hi!”
“What are you laughing at?” snapped Bob, turning sharply upon old Teggley.
“At you, Mars Bob Chowne, going for a cabin-boy.”
Whop!
That last was a severe crack given to admonish the big bony horse old Teggley drove; but he was a merciful man to his beast, and always hit on the pad, the collar, or the shafts.
“S’pose I like to go for a cabin-boy, ’tain’t no business of yours, is it?” cried Bob snappishly.
“Not a bit, my lad, not a bit. I’ll take your sea-chest over to Barnstaple for you when you go.”
“No, you won’t,” grumbled Bob viciously, “for I won’t have one.”
“Ahoy! Bigley,” I shouted, looking out from under the tilt. “Hooray for school!”
“Aha! Look at him—look at him!” shouted Bob, whose whole manner changed as soon as he saw Bigley’s doleful face. “I say, old Grey, here’s a little boy crying because he is going back to school.”
Bigley did not say anything, only gave Bob a reproachful glance as he handed his box up to the carrier, and then climbed in.
“Gently, Mars Uggles’on,” cried the old carrier, who seemed to consider that he had a right like other people to joke Bigley about his size; “gently, my lad, or you’ll break the sharps. I didn’t know I was going to have a two-horse load.”
“Look here, old Teggley Grey!” cried Bigley firing up; “if you say another word about my being so large, I’ll pitch you out of the back of the cart, and drive into Barnstaple without you.”
“Do, Bigley, do,” cried Bob in ecstasy. “Here, I’ll hold the reins. Chuck him out.”
“Don’t talk that way, Mars Bob Chowne,” whined the old man. “You wouldn’t like me to be hurt.”
“Oh, just wouldn’t I!” cried Bob spitefully. “Pitch him overboard, Bigley, old boy, and hurt him as much as you can.”
“No, no, you wouldn’t, Mars Bob Chowne. You wouldn’t like me to have to be carried home on a wagon, and your father have to tend me for broken bones and such.”
“I tell you I would,” cried Bob savagely; “and I hope you’ll bite your tongue, and then you won’t be so ready to ask questions. There!”
“Me ask questions!” exclaimed the old carrier in an ill-used tone. “As if I ever did. Well, never mind, he’ll know better some day.”
The old man sniffed several times quite severely, and sat bolt upright at the side of the cart, looking out at his horse’s ears, and left us to ourselves. Bob’s fit of melancholy was over, and he was ready to make remarks upon everything he saw; but neither Bigley nor I spoke, for we were intent upon something the latter told me.
“I don’t want to tell tales,” he said to me in a low tone, “but father makes me miserable.”
“But do you think it is so bad as you say?”
Bigley nodded.
“He goes and sits on a stone with his spy-glass where he can see them, but they can’t see him, and he stops there watching for hours everything they do, and comes back looking very serious and queer.”
“Well, what does it matter?” I said. “He won’t hurt us. He can’t, because he is my father’s tenant, and if he did he’d have to go.”
“Don’t talk like that, Sep,” whispered Bigley. “It’s bad enough now, and it would be worse then.”
“I say, what chaps you two are!” cried Bob Chowne. “Why don’t you talk to a fellow?”
No one answered, and Bob turned sulky and went and sat on the front of the cart, where he began to whistle.
“What do you mean by being worse?” I said.
Bigley shook his head.
“I don’t know; I can’t say,” he whispered. “I mean I don’t want father to be very cross.”
“I say, Big,” I whispered. “Your father really is a smuggler, isn’t he?”
Bigley looked sharply round to gaze at old Teggley Grey and Bob Chowne, creeping as he did so nearer to the tail-board of the cart, and I followed him.
“I oughtn’t to tell,” he whispered back.
“But you’ll tell me. I won’t say a word to a soul,” I said.
“Well, I don’t know. I’m not sure, but—”
Bigley paused, and looked round again before putting his lips close to my ear and whispering softly:
“I think he is.”
“I’m sure of it,” I whispered back; “and I know he goes out in his lugger to meet French boats and Dutch boats, and makes no end of money by smuggling.”
“Who told you that?” whispered Bigley fiercely.
“Nobody. It’s what everybody says of him. They all say that he’ll be caught and hanged some day for it—hung in chains; but of course I hope he won’t, Big, because of you.”
“It’s all nonsense. It isn’t true,” said Bigley indignantly, “and those who talk that way are far more likely to be hung themselves. But I wish your father hadn’t bought the Gap.”
“I don’t,” I said. “He had a right to buy it if he liked, and I don’t see what business it is of your father. Why don’t he attend to his fishing?”
Bigley looked up at me sharply, to see if I had any hidden meaning.
“He does attend to his fishing,” he said angrily; “and if he hadn’t been attending to his fishing he wouldn’t have been out in his boat that day, and saved you from being drowned.”
I never liked Bigley half so well before as when he spoke up like that in defence of his father; but I was in a sour disappointed mood that day, because the holidays were over and I was going back to school, so I said something that was thoroughly ungenerous, and which I felt sorry for as I spoke.
“Yes, he saved us all from being drowned, I suppose,” I said; “but he hadn’t been fishing, for there were no fish in the boat.”
“Just as if anybody could be sure of catching fish every time he went out,” cried Bigley angrily. “There, you want to quarrel because you are miserable at having to go back to school, but I sha’n’t. I hate it. Go and fall out with old Bob Chowne.”
This made me feel angry and I drew away from him, for it was trying to make out that I was as quarrelsome as Bob Chowne delighted to be. But I felt so horribly in fault directly after that I went back to my place and sat by him in silence.
After a time the old carrier turned to us with a request that we would get out and give the horse a rest up the hill.
We all obeyed, two of us jumping out over the tail-board, the other by the front, and leaping off the shaft.
It was plain enough that the holidays were over, and that the joyous hearty spirit of the homeward-bound was there no more, for Bob Chowne took one side of the road in front of the horse, and the old carrier the other, while Bigley and I hung back behind and walked slowly after them on opposite sides after the fashion of those in front.
Then came the stopping of the cart, and mounting again and descending a couple more times, before we reached Barnstaple, dull, low-spirited, and ready to find about a score of boys just back, and looking as doleful as we did ourselves.