Part 18 (1/2)
CHAPTER XXIII.
THREE OF A KIND.
”I've got him! I've got him! Take his other arm, Toot!”
”Let go; she's tipping!”
”Will I let go and see the bloke drownded? You're a s.p.u.n.ky feller, Toot Watts. Anybody'd think you never rocked a dory before yourself. Get up in the stern, Turkey. Now pull her in to the bridge and hold on to the logs. That'll balance her.”
With one hand the Whistler held the drowning man's arm, while with the other he lifted his chin out of the water. It was a dangerous position, leaning over the bow in this manner, but the man in tow was unconscious and could not struggle. In a half-dozen strokes Turkey had brought the dory's stern up against one of the piles of the pier. This support he clasped with might and main, while Toot and the Whistler drew the body over the bow. Both were breathing hard when it was finally boarded.
”Turn him over,” cried the Whistler. ”You take the oars, Turkey, and row like fury for the beach. Get the bloke's head around, Toot, up against the bow. That's it. Now work his left arm up and down; I'll take the right--not so fast--about like this. That'll make him breathe.”
”Do you think he's dead?” asked Toot in an awestruck whisper.
”He ain't dead. I felt of his heart.”
”I seen a bloke at the bath-house that was in the water half an hour and they brought him round,” said Turkey, panting at the oars.
”Keep the arm going, Toot. Never mind if you're tired.”
”Are we near the beach?” asked Toot. He was the youngest of the trio, not much more than a child, in fact, and even the slum child, precocious in many kinds of knowledge, does not peep without tremors behind the veil of the mystery of mysteries. No one answered his query. An answer was not necessary, for over his shoulder the white line of the surf could be seen. When they got near the Whistler jumped to Turkey's side, seized the right oar and gave the added impetus of his lithe young arms to the headway of the boat. The water hardly rippled the glorious ribbon of moonlight behind them and wind and tide were set toward sh.o.r.e. Under these favoring circ.u.mstances the dory was carried high and dry upon the sands.
”Lift him out,” cried the Whistler. s.h.a.garach's body was laid upon the beach, dripping and disheveled. ”You run up to the refectory, Toot, and tell the cop there to bring some whisky. Turn him over, Turkey, and let the water run out. Now slap his cheeks. Slap them hard.”
”He's breathing.”
”How did he tumble in, I wonder? Gee, didn't he come down flopping?”
”P'raps he was loaded.”
”Lucky he didn't hit on them rocks there.”
”He would if the tide was dead low.”
Neither the Whistler nor Turkey had checked their vigorous efforts to resuscitate the limp body. Even the catching of their boat on a high-crested wave did not seduce them from their work.
”I'll swim after her,” said the Whistler, watching the dory drift slowly off the sands.
Soon s.h.a.garach's eyes opened and his lips muttered indistinctly. Presently he moved his arms. How cool the air was! He had often longed to lie like this on a soft, white sand, and let the shallow water play over him, while he pierced with his gaze the deep blue sky. But the stars were above him now--not pendulous tongues of flame such as throbbed in the oriental heavens of his childhood, but the smoldering embers of the northern night, paling in the moonlight. And whose were those two strange faces thrust darkly over the golden disk?
”Are you better, mister?” It was unmistakably an earthly tone, the voice and accent of the city gamin, but warm with that humaneness of heart which a ragged jacket shelters as often as a velvet one.
”Take my coat, mister. You're s.h.i.+vering,” said the Whistler, suiting action to word, so that s.h.a.garach found himself embraced by a garment, not dry by any means, but more grateful than the soaked apparel which was chilling his skin.
”If you can get up, mister, and run around, it'll warm you. Toot'll be here soon with some whisky.”
s.h.a.garach gathered his strength to rise, but the effort was fruitless.
”How did I come here?” he gasped.
”You fell over the bridge, right near us. We were fis.h.i.+ng for smelts and rowed over and saved you.”
”That was fortunate. I thank you,” murmured s.h.a.garach.
”Can't yer swim?” asked Turkey in a pitying tone, but s.h.a.garach was preoccupied with his recollections. He had made a mistake of judgment. He should have declined the rendezvous. But who and what was the a.s.sailant, the leering oaf he had pa.s.sed on the pier? Was it some agent of the Arnolds? The anonymous letters pointed to that source. They were all seamed with allusions to the trial of Robert Floyd. And they formed his only clew. Stay, the hat he still clutched in his hand. He raised it feebly--for the mental energies of the lawyer were more elastic than the physical--and his teeth were still chattering though his brain was clear. It was a round, rimless cap of a common pattern.
”Here comes Toot.” The Whistler, who was all eyes, had been the first to espy him, running at the top of his speed. Out of the darkness behind him loomed the powerful form of a policeman.
”The cop's comin', fellers. Here he is,” cried Toot.
”Gimme the whisky,” said the Whistler. ”Take a swig, mister. It'll warm you up.”
s.h.a.garach applied his lips to the bottle and took a sparing draught.
”Well, how is the gentleman?” sang out the policeman, cheerily.
”He's all right now,” answered the Whistler, a strange uneasiness coming over him.
The officer stooped down to the man's face.
”Why, Mr. s.h.a.garach----” Surprise prevented him from saying more and s.h.a.garach looked up at hearing his name.
”You're not on the old beat now?” he said.
”No, I'm on the park force till I get strong again. This is a bad accident. Coming round all right, though, by the look o' things.”
”Yes, give me a hand and I'll try to rise.”
Officer Chandler's great hand swung s.h.a.garach on his feet. For a moment his knees sunk. Then he shook himself like a draggled dog. The liquor was working its way to his marrow and banis.h.i.+ng the deep-seated chill.
”I owe my life to these boys,” he said.
”h.e.l.lo, what are you stripping for?” asked the officer, turning around.
”My dory,” answered the Whistler. He had already reduced himself to the minimum of wearing apparel and stood ankle-deep in the surf.
The dory was twenty yards out, showing a dark broadside against the moonlit waves.
”Oh, all right,” laughed Chandler. ”Give me your arm, Mr. s.h.a.garach. We'll furnish you a new outfit at the refectory. How did it all happen?”
”One moment, till the boy comes back.” s.h.a.garach knew that his a.s.sailant had had time to escape and that search for the present would be useless, but he saw no advantage in keeping the incident to himself. So he sketched the story of the letters, the rendezvous and the struggle, in his curt, forcible style.
”Find the head that cap fits and you'll do me a service,” he concluded, showing Chandler the headgear.
”There was n.o.body on the bridge?”