“You will look after him, won’t you?”
“Certainly. You can rely upon me absolutely.”
Thus two men on the deck of a ship. One was silver-haired, elderly, spare and very refined looking. The other, of medium height, broadly built, and middle-aged1, was, in his way, of striking appearance. His strong face, lined and sun-tanned, was half hidden in a full, iron-grey beard, and the keen blue eyes with their straight glance, were of that kind which would be deadly looking at you from behind the sights of a rifle. His hands, rough and hard, were like his face, burnt almost to a mahogany brown, the result of forty-five years’ exposure—man and boy—to the varying climates of the southern section of the African continent. And the first speaker was Sir Anson Selmes, Bart., and the second was Harley Greenoak, hunter, prospector2, native trader, native fighter, stock farmer, transport rider, and other things—all in turn. And as he plays an important part in some strange adventures which are to befall, we have dwelt somewhat at length upon his personal aspect. His character you shall discover for yourself.
“Rely upon you? I’m sure I can,” went on Sir Anson, heartily3. “And Dick has a boundless4 capacity for getting into scrapes of one kind or another. There’s no vice5 in him, but he simply can’t help it. You’ll find him no sinecure6, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, as to that,” answered Greenoak, easily, “we shall pull all right. You see, I’ve already been sizing him up to my own satisfaction or I wouldn’t have undertaken to look after him.”
“That I’m sure you wouldn’t, Greenoak,” laughed Sir Anson. “You’re nothing if not decisive.”
“I’m afraid a man gets rather blunt after leading a life like mine,” said the other.
“I’m only too fortunate in getting hold of a man of your experience to look after the boy,” rejoined the baronet, heartily. “Why, there he is.”
The subject of their conversation burst upon them in his breezy way. He was a tall, fine young fellow of twenty-six, blue eyed, light haired, healthy, wholesome7, athletic8, and looking what he was—an English gentleman.
“Hallo, dad. What are you and Greenoak plotting there? Why, you’ve been in earnest confab for at least an hour. What’s the subject?”
“Yourself, Dick,” answered his father. “You know I only took the run over here for the sake of the voyage, but now you’re over you’d better see something of the country, and do a few months’ knocking about with Greenoak. He has very kindly9 consented to look after you, only he little knows what a handful he’s undertaking10.”
The young fellow’s face lit up.
“Why, that’ll be ripping.” Then remembering—“But what about yourself, dad? I can’t leave you to go back all alone.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right. Dawson’ll look after me; as he has done almost ever since I’ve had the honour of your acquaintance. This is an opportunity though, which you can’t afford to lose, so we can consider it settled. Eh, Greenoak?”
“That’s right, Sir Anson,” was the reply, as the speaker fished out a handful of black Transvaal tobacco, which he kept loose in his side pocket, and proceeded to cram11 his pipe.
“By George, what times we’ll have!” sang out Dick, delightedly. “We’ll yarn12 about it presently. Now I’m in the middle of a game of quoits with those Johnson women, and as they’re about the touchiest13 crowd on board I shall get in a row if I keep them waiting any longer.”
He strode away, whistling, leaving his seniors to their conversation. These two—the English baronet and the South African up-country man, had made acquaintance during the outward voyage, and had grown very friendly indeed. And the result of this newly formed friendship was that Sir Anson had begged Greenoak to take charge of the young fellow—in short to take him round a bit—in quite an informal sort of way.
Greenoak, although he had put by something during his varied14 and roving life, was by no means opulent, and had fully15 intended, on his return trip from England, to start up-country again at once in some capacity or other. This new line was something of a novelty to him, but it was a very welcome one, for Sir Anson Selmes had arranged it upon the most liberal terms. He had given him an absolutely free hand in the matter of expenses, and the honorarium16 which he was to receive was generous to a degree.
“You’re very confiding17, Sir Anson,” Greenoak remarked in his queer blunt way. “How do you know I shan’t rob you? Why, you’re almost putting a premium18 on any man doing so under that agreement.”
Still discussing the arrangement just concluded, the two were seated in deck chairs in the shade afforded by a boat slung19 inward on chocks. The voyage was nearly at an end. The ship had lain three days in the Cape20 Town docks, and now was skirting Danger Point, with its lofty cliffs and treacherous21 archipelago of sunken reefs. There was a fine roll on, and every now and then the nose of the liner dipped deep into the green water, throwing up a seething22 splash of milky23 spume.
“Because,” answered Sir Anson, “I know something of men, although my experience has been gained in a side of life totally different from your own. Apart from that, does it occur to you that you may not be entirely24 unknown to some of the passengers, and even, by repute, to the ship’s officers? What if I may have heard it said, more than once, that Harley Greenoak’s name is better than most men’s witnessed signature?”
“Well, Sir Anson, I don’t want to brag25, but, since you put things that way, it has certainly always been as good,” was the reply.
For a minute or two both men smoked on in silence, their gaze resting meditatively26 on the white lines of surf storming against the base of the iron cliffs at no great distance on the port beam. Then Greenoak said:
“I believe we can’t be far from where the Birkenhead went down. In fact I shouldn’t be surprised if this was the very spot.”
“Let’s hope not,” rejoined Sir Anson. “I mean let’s hope we’re a little further out from land. But it’s interesting to be on it, and I’m glad you reminded me. By Jove, but that is a story which no Englishman could read or dwell upon without a thrill of pride; for I don’t believe any other country could produce its parallel. Think of the splendid discipline of those heroic fellows—rank and file alike—drawn up as though on parade, staring death—certain death—straight in the face without a qualm, so that the women and children should be saved. Yet a few did manage to swim ashore27, but it has always been a perfect miracle to me that they did. Now, looking at that surf yonder, it is, if possible, a still greater one.”
“It wasn’t only the surf and the rocks they had to reckon on,” said Harley Greenoak. “These waters are simply swarming28 with sharks.”
“Yes, one heard that at the time, which renders it still more miraculous29 that a single man jack30 of them should have escaped.”
“I know a man who did. He’s in the Police, and came out here as a youngster in the Birkenhead. He said men were dragged down on each side of him while they were swimming. I tell you what it is, Sir Anson—if I were offered half a million of money to swim ashore from here now, even with a boat a score of yards behind me, I’d say ‘No thank you.’ Of course a man is bound to ‘go under’ sooner or later, but I don’t hanker after that method of doing so.”
And the speaker, rising, went to the rail to knock the ashes out of his pipe.
“God bless my soul! What’s that?” cried Sir Anson, half starting out of his chair.
For a cry rang out, sharp and clear—a cry which, next to that of “Fire,” is the most thrilling of all to a floating community.
“Man overboard!”
A rush was made aft. The confusion and excitement among the passengers were indescribable. Men talked, women shrieked31, and one fainted. And above this scene of terror and uproar32, a tall figure, lightly clad, was seen to spring upon the taffrail. For just a second it stood poised33, then with hands joined above the head, sprang far out in a splendid dive. And in that second the dismayed onlookers34 had time to make out the form of Dick Selmes.
At the sight a cheer broke forth35, somewhat quavering, to be sure. Roughly charging through the crowd a quarter-master leapt aft, and with deft36 and powerful sweep of the arm hurled37 the lifebuoy in his hand far out and across the path of the swimmer. But the latter passed it unheeded. He required nothing to hamper38 his pace, as with a strong, swift side stroke he clove39 his way through and over the tumble of the waves. The “man overboard” was now seen to be a small boy, and he had already sunk twice. No, there was no time to be lost.
But even in that brief fraction of a minute Harley Greenoak had flung off his coat, and muttering, “He’s bound to need help,” had leaped upon the rail and sprung out into the sea, cleaving40 his way with no less powerful strokes to where the two were struggling.
Dick had reached the drowning boy, and was holding him up in firm athletic grasp, but there was a nasty choppy sea running, which, breaking into spume, both blinded and choked him. He was treading water now, as though to wait until the boat should be lowered. But Harley Greenoak had picked up the lifebuoy and was towing it towards the pair, whom in a few minutes he was seen to reach. Then something like a gasp41 of relief escaped the spectators. Those two powerful men, with the aid of the lifebuoy, should have no difficulty in keeping both themselves and their charge afloat until they were picked up. But there was one to whom this consideration brought little if any relief at all, and that one was Sir Anson Selmes.
The agony of the unhappy father was simply hideous42 to endure. The conversation of a minute or two back burnt into his brain like letters of fire. These waters were swarming with sharks, and had not Greenoak just declared that no consideration would tempt43 him to venture into the sea at this point. Yet hardly had the words left his mouth than he deliberately44 did that very thing. Even his frenzied45 apprehension46 for the safety of his son could not dim a glow of admiration47 for this cool, brave man who had courted the ghastly death he himself had pronounced to be almost certain, when the object was the saving of life. Every second seemed an hour, every minute a week. Would they never lower that boat?
But the way on the steamer was far too great to allow of her being stopped at once, consequently she was being brought round to the submerged three, and although this could not be done all in a minute, it could be in far less time than that taken to pull a boat any distance in such a choppy sea.
Hurrah48! The boat dropped from the davits, and went plashing through the waves as fast as sinew and muscle could send her.
“We’re all jolly,” bawled49 Dick Selmes, “only look sharp. It’s beastly cold.”
The words, audible to those on the ship, raised a laugh that rounded off into a mighty50 cheer, as the boat was seen to gain its objective and the three were hoisted51 in.
“Thirteen minutes from the time of going over the side,” said the officer in charge of the ship, closing his watch with a snap. “Not bad time that, sir?”
“No. It’s good,” said the captain, who, half asleep in his cabin, had been roused by the uproar and had quickly ascended52 to the bridge.
“Drowned rat Number One,” sang out Dick Selmes, shoving the cause of all the bother in front of him, as they gained the deck. Then there was a great deal of hugging and kissing on the part of the mother, which was cut short by the decisive voice of the doctor, ordering the drenched53 and shivering boy to be taken below at once.
“Dick, you scoundrel, what do you mean by behaving like that?” exclaimed Sir Anson rather unsteadily, as he wrung54 the defaulter’s hands again and again. “What d’you mean by it, sir? Ah, Greenoak, I told you you’d find him a handful, and he’s lost no time in backing up what I said. And you— Why, man, after what you were just telling me—swarming with sharks, eh? Heroic—that’s what it is. You’re a hero, sir—both heroes—and—”
“I say, dad,” interrupted Dick, quizzically, “let’s have the speech later. We want to go and change and get something hot. I swear I do.”
This raised a great laugh among the lookers on, tailing off into a cheer, in the midst of which the dripping ones disappeared in the companion way, followed by Sir Anson.
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1
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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prospector
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| n.探矿者 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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13
touchiest
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| adj.易动气的( touchy的最高级 )；小心眼的；需要小心对待的；棘手的 | |
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14
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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honorarium
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| n.酬金，谢礼 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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18
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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19
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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23
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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28
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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29
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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31
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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42
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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46
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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47
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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48
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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49
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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50
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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51
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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54
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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