Part 9 (2/2)

Now the chorus.

The sailor's wife the sailor's star shall be,--

Come on! You sing too!”

”Yeo ho! we go, Across the sea!”

came Lady Ingleby's voice from below, rather faint and quavering.

”That's right!” shouted Jim Airth. ”Keep it up! I can see the ledge now, just above us.

The bo's'n pipes the watch below, Yeo ho! lads! ho!

Yeo ho! Yeo ho!

Then here's a health afore we go, Yeo ho! lads! ho!

Yeo ho!

A long, long life to my sweet wife, And mates at sea

--Keep it up down there! I have one hand on the ledge--

And keep our bones from Davy Jones Where'er we be!”

”And--keep our bones--from-- Davy Jones--who e'er he be,”

quavered Lady Ingleby, making one final effort to move up into the vacant niches, though conscious that her fingers and toes were so numb that she could not feel them grip the sand.

Then Jim Airth's whole body vanished suddenly from above her, as he drew himself on to the ledge.

”_Yeo ho! we go_!” Came his gay voice from above.

_”Yeo ho! Yeo ho!”_

sang Lady Ingleby, in a faint whisper.

She could not move on into the empty niches. She could only remain where she was, clinging to the face of the cliff.

She suddenly thought of a fly on a wall; and remembered a particular fly, years ago, on her nursery wall. She had followed its ascent with a small interested finger, and her nurse had come by with a duster, and saying: ”Nasty thing!” had ruthlessly flicked it off. The fly had fallen--fallen dead, on the nursery carpet.... Lady Ingleby felt she too was falling.

She gave one agonised glance upward to the towering cliff, with the line of sky above it. Then everything swayed and rocked. ”A mother of soldiers,” her brain insisted, ”must fall without screaming.” Then--A long arm shot down from above; a strong hand gripped her firmly.

”One step more,” said Jim Airth's voice, close to her ear, ”and I can lift you.”

She made the effort, and he drew her on to the ledge beside him.

”Thank you very much,” said Lady Ingleby. ”And who was Davy Jones?”

Jim Airth's face was streaming with perspiration. His mouth was full of sand. His heart was beating in his throat. But he loved to play the game, and he loved to see another do it. So he laughed as he put his arm around her, holding her tightly so that she should not realise how much she was trembling.

”Davy Jones,” he said, ”is a gentleman who has a locker at the bottom of the sea, into which all drown'd things go. I am afraid your pretty parasol has gone there, and my boots and stockings. But we may well spare him those.... Oh, I say!.... Yes, do have a good cry. Don't mind me. And don't you think between us we could remember some sort of a prayer? For if ever two people faced death together, we have faced it; and, by G.o.d's mercy, here we are--alive.”

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