Odd Craft, Complete

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, tapping him on the arm, “was a little touch o’ the sun.”

“What felt to you like a push,” said another man, “and over you went.”

“As easy as easy,” said a third.

“You’re red in the face now,” said the stout fisherman, regarding him critically, “and your eyes are starting. You take my advice and get ‘ome and get to bed, and the first thing you’ll do when you get your senses back will be to go round and thank Mr. Blundell for all ‘e’s done for you.”

Mr. Turnbull looked at them, and the circle of intelligent faces grew misty before his angry eyes. One man, ignoring his sodden condition, recommended a wet handkerchief tied round his brow.

“I don’t want any thanks, Mr. Turnbull,” said Blundell, feebly, as he was assisted to his feet. “I’d do as much for you again.”

The stout fisherman patted him admiringly on the back, and Mr. Turnbull felt like a prophet beholding a realised vision as the spectators clustered round Mr. Blundell and followed their friends’ example. Tenderly but firmly they led the hero in triumph up the quay toward home, shouting out eulogistic descriptions of his valour to curious neighbours as they passed. Mr. Turnbull, churlishly keeping his distance in the rear of the procession, received in grim silence the congratulations of his friends.

The extraordinary hallucination caused by the sun-stroke lasted with him for over a week, but at the end of that time his mind cleared and he saw things in the same light as reasonable folk. Venia was the first to congratulate him upon his recovery; but his extraordinary behaviour in proposing to Miss Sippet the very day on which she herself became Mrs. Blundell convinced her that his recovery was only partial.

BILL’S LAPSE

Strength and good-nature—said the night-watchman, musingly, as he felt his biceps—strength and good-nature always go together. Sometimes you find a strong man who is not good-natured, but then, as everybody he comes in contack with is, it comes to the same thing.

The strongest and kindest-’earted man I ever come across was a man o’ the name of Bill Burton, a ship-mate of Ginger Dick’s. For that matter ‘e was a shipmate o’ Peter Russet’s and old Sam Small’s too. Not over and above tall; just about my height, his arms was like another man’s legs for size, and ‘is chest and his back and shoulders might ha’ been made for a giant. And with all that he’d got a soft blue eye like a gal’s (blue’s my favourite colour for gals’ eyes), and a nice, soft, curly brown beard. He was an A.B., too, and that showed ‘ow good-natured he was, to pick up with firemen.

He got so fond of ‘em that when they was all paid off from the Ocean King he asked to be allowed to join them in taking a room ashore. It pleased every-body, four coming cheaper than three, and Bill being that good-tempered that ‘e’d put up with anything, and when any of the three quarrelled he used to act the part of peacemaker.

The only thing about ‘im that they didn’t like was that ‘e was a teetotaler. He’d go into public-’ouses with ‘em, but he wouldn’t drink; leastways, that is to say, he wouldn’t drink beer, and Ginger used to say that it made ‘im feel uncomfortable to see Bill put away a bottle o’ lemonade every time they ‘ad a drink. One night arter ‘e had ‘ad seventeen bottles he could ‘ardly got home, and Peter Russet, who knew a lot about pills and such-like, pointed out to ‘im ‘ow bad it was for his constitushon. He proved that the lemonade would eat away the coats o’ Bill’s stomach, and that if ‘e kept on ‘e might drop down dead at any moment.

That frightened Bill a bit, and the next night, instead of ‘aving lemonade, ‘e had five bottles o’ stone ginger-beer, six of different kinds of teetotal beer, three of soda-water, and two cups of coffee. I’m not counting the drink he ‘ad at the chemist’s shop arterward, because he took that as medicine, but he was so queer in ‘is inside next morning that ‘e began to be afraid he’d ‘ave to give up drink altogether.

He went without the next night, but ‘e was such a generous man that ‘e would pay every fourth time, and there was no pleasure to the other chaps to see ‘im pay and ‘ave nothing out of it. It spoilt their evening, and owing to ‘aving only about ‘arf wot they was accustomed to they all got up very disagreeable next morning.

“Why not take just a little beer, Bill?” asks Ginger.

Bill ‘ung his ‘ead and looked a bit silly. “I’d rather not, mate,” he ses, at last. “I’ve been teetotal for eleven months now.”

“Think of your ‘ealth, Bill,” ses Peter Russet; “your ‘ealth is more important than the pledge. Wot made you take it?”

Bill coughed. “I ‘ad reasons,” he ses, slowly. “A mate o’ mine wished me to.”

“He ought to ha’ known better,” ses Sam. “He ‘ad ‘is reasons,” ses Bill.

“Well, all I can say is, Bill,” ses Ginger, “all I can say is, it’s very disobligin’ of you.”

“Disobligin’?” ses Bill, with a start; “don’t say that, mate.”

“I must say it,” ses Ginger, speaking very firm.

“You needn’t take a lot, Bill,” ses Sam; “nobody wants you to do that. Just drink in moderation, same as wot we do.”

“It gets into my ‘ead,” ses Bill, at last.

“Well, and wot of it?” ses Ginger; “it gets into everybody’s ‘ead occasionally. Why, one night old Sam ‘ere went up behind a policeman and tickled ‘im under the arms; didn’t you, Sam?”

“I did nothing o’ the kind,” ses Sam, firing up.

“Well, you was fined ten bob for it next morning, that’s all I know,” ses Ginger.