Odd Craft, Complete. William Wymark Jacobs

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      The other shook his head. “If you could only do something daring,” he murmured; “half-kill some-body, or save somebody’s life, and let her see you do it. Couldn’t you dive off the quay and save some-body’s life from drowning?”

      “Yes, I could,” said Blundell, “if somebody would only tumble in.”

      “You might pretend that you thought you saw somebody drowning,” suggested Mr. Turnbull.

      “And be laughed at,” said Mr. Blundell, who knew his Venia by heart.

      “You always seem to be able to think of objections,” complained Mr. Turnbull; “I’ve noticed that in you before.”

      “I’d go in fast enough if there was anybody there,” said Blundell. “I’m not much of a swimmer, but—”

      “All the better,” interrupted the other; “that would make it all the more daring.”

      “And I don’t much care if I’m drowned,” pursued the younger man, gloomily.

      Mr. Turnbull thrust his hands in his pockets and took a turn or two up and down the room. His brows were knitted and his lips pursed. In the presence of this mental stress Mr. Blundell preserved a respectful silence.

      “We’ll all four go for a walk on the quay on Sunday afternoon,” said Mr. Turnbull, at last.

      “On the chance?” inquired his staring friend.

      “On the chance,” assented the other; “it’s just possible Daly might fall in.”

      “He might if we walked up and down five million times,” said Blundell, unpleasantly.

      “He might if we walked up and down three or four times,” said Mr. Turnbull, “especially if you happened to stumble.”

      “I never stumble,” said the matter-of-fact Mr. Blundell. “I don’t know anybody more sure-footed than I am.”

      “Or thick-headed,” added the exasperated Mr. Turnbull.

      Mr. Blundell regarded him patiently; he had a strong suspicion that his friend had been drinking.

      “Stumbling,” said Mr. Turnbull, conquering his annoyance with an effort “stumbling is a thing that might happen to anybody. You trip your foot against a stone and lurch up against Daly; he tumbles overboard, and you off with your jacket and dive in off the quay after him. He can’t swim a stroke.”

      Mr. Blundell caught his breath and gazed at him in speechless amaze.

      “There’s sure to be several people on the quay if it’s a fine afternoon,” continued his instructor. “You’ll have half Dunchurch round you, praising you and patting you on the back—all in front of Venia, mind you. It’ll be put in all the papers and you’ll get a medal.”

      “And suppose we are both drowned?” said Mr. Blundell, soberly.

      “Drowned? Fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Turnbull. “However, please yourself. If you’re afraid–”

      “I’ll do it,” said Blundell, decidedly.

      “And mind,” said the other, “don’t do it as if it’s as easy as kissing your fingers; be half-drowned yourself, or at least pretend to be. And when you’re on the quay take your time about coming round. Be longer than Daly is; you don’t want him to get all the pity.”

      “All right,” said the other.

      “After a time you can open your eyes,” went on his instructor; “then, if I were you, I should say, ‘Good-bye, Venia,’ and close ‘em again. Work it up affecting, and send messages to your aunts.”

      “It sounds all right,” said Blundell.

      “It is all right,” said Mr. Turnbull. “That’s just the bare idea I’ve given you. It’s for you to improve upon it. You’ve got two days to think about it.”

      Mr. Blundell thanked him, and for the next two days thought of little else. Being a careful man he made his will, and it was in a comparatively cheerful frame of mind that he made his way on Sunday afternoon to Mr. Turnbull’s.

      The sergeant was already there conversing in low tones with Venia by the window, while Mr. Turnbull, sitting opposite in an oaken armchair, regarded him with an expression which would have shocked Iago.

      “We were just thinking of having a blow down by the water,” he said, as Blundell entered.

      “What! a hot day like this?” said Venia.

      “I was just thinking how beautifully cool it is in here,” said the sergeant, who was hoping for a repetition of the previous Sunday’s performance.

      “It’s cooler outside,” said Mr. Turnbull, with a wilful ignoring of facts; “much cooler when you get used to it.”

      He led the way with Blundell, and Venia and the sergeant, keeping as much as possible in the shade of the dust-powdered hedges, followed. The sun was blazing in the sky, and scarce half-a-dozen people were to be seen on the little curved quay which constituted the usual Sunday afternoon promenade. The water, a dozen feet below, lapped cool and green against the stone sides.

      At the extreme end of the quay, underneath the lantern, they all stopped, ostensibly to admire a full-rigged ship sailing slowly by in the distance, but really to effect the change of partners necessary to the after-noon’s business. The change gave Mr. Turnbull some trouble ere it was effected, but he was successful at last, and, walking behind the two young men, waited somewhat nervously for developments.

      Twice they paraded the length of the quay and nothing happened. The ship was still visible, and, the sergeant halting to gaze at it, the company lost their formation, and he led the complaisant Venia off from beneath her father’s very nose.

      “You’re a pretty manager, you are, John Blundell,” said the incensed Mr. Turnbull.

      “I know what I’m about,” said Blundell, slowly.

      “Well, why don’t you do it?” demanded the other. “I suppose you are going to wait until there are more people about, and then perhaps some of them will see you push him over.”

      “It isn’t that,” said Blundell, slowly, “but you told me to improve on your plan, you know, and I’ve been thinking out improvements.”

      “Well?” said the other.

      “It doesn’t seem much good saving Daly,” said Blundell; “that’s what I’ve been thinking. He would be in as much danger as I should, and he’d get as much sympathy; perhaps more.”

      “Do you mean to tell me that you are backing out of it?” demanded Mr. Turnbull.

      “No,” said Blundell, slowly, “but it would be much better if I saved somebody else. I don’t want Daly to be pitied.”

      “Bah! you are backing out of it,” said the irritated Mr. Turnbull. “You’re afraid of a little cold water.”

      “No, I’m not,” said Blundell; “but it would be better in every way to save somebody else. She’ll see Daly standing there doing nothing, СКАЧАТЬ