"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-aged, 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, prospector, 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, heartily. "And
Dick has a boundless capacity for getting into scrapes of one kind or
another. There's no vice in him, but he simply can't help it. You'll
find him no sinecure, 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, wholesome, athletic, 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 kindly consented to look after you, only he
little knows what a handful he's undertaking."
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 cram his pipe.
"By George, what times we'll have!" sang out Dick, delightedly. "We'll
yarn about it presently. Now I'm in the middle of a game of quoits with
those Johnson women, and as they're about the touchiest 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 varied and roving
life, was by no means opulent, and had fully 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 honorarium which he was to receive was generous to
a degree.
"You're very confiding, Sir Anson," Greenoak remarked in his queer blunt
way. "How do you know I shan't rob you? Why, you're almost putting a
premium 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 slung inward on chocks. The
voyage was nearly at an end. The ship had lain three days in the Cape
Town docks, and now was skirting Danger Point, with its lofty cliffs and
treacherous 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 seething splash of milky 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 entirely
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 brag, 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
meditatively 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 ashore, 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 swarming with sharks."
"Yes, one heard that at the time, which renders it still more miraculous
that a single man jack 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 shrieked, and one fainted. And
above this scene of terror and uproar, a tall figure, lightly clad, was
seen to spring upon the taffrail. For just a second it stood poised,
then with hands joined above the head, sprang far out in a splendid
dive. And in that second the dismayed onlookers had time to make out
the form of Dick Selmes.
At the sight a cheer broke forth, somewhat quavering, to be sure.
Roughly charging through the crowd a quarter-master leapt aft, and with
deft and powerful sweep of the arm hurled the lifebuoy in his hand far
out and across the path of the swimmer. But the latter passed it
unheeded. He required nothing to hamper his pace, as with a strong,
swift side stroke he clove 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, cleaving 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 gasp
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 hideous 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 tempt him to venture into the
sea at this point. Yet hardly had the words left his mouth than he
deliberately did that very thing. Even his frenzied apprehension for
the safety of his son could not dim a glow of admiration 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.
Hurrah! 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," bawled 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 mighty cheer, as the boat was seen to gain its objective and the
three were hoisted 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 ascended 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 drenched 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 wrung 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.