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The Story of Wild Will Enderby

Chapter VII. In the Eddy

page 37

Chapter VII. In the Eddy.

Breathless and exhausted Harry Grey reached the place where Argus Bill was still standing in the same indifferent attitude.

"Where is it?" he panted forth. "Where—"

"There!" answered the newsman, laconically, and he pointed to the river.

Harry gazed, and beheld—the river—"only that and nothing more!"

And then, despite the admonition of good old Dr Watts, his angry passions rose; and I verily believe that he would have expressed his opinion more forcibly than by mere words, only that before he had time or opportunity to do so, a white object suddenly emerged from the bosom of the water, and to all appearance it was that whereof they were in search.

Caught in an eddy formed by one of the small vortices, of which mention has already been made, the paper travelled an irregular ellipse, at one point coming close inshore; so close, indeed, that an ordinary walking-stick would almost have reached it. Then, gradually narrowing its orbit, it drew in, and still further in towards the centre, and finally was sucked down, to be again presently cast upon the outer rim of the circling waters.

page 38

In his ignorant anxiety Harry would have plunged into the water after it; but the newsman held him back.

"Don't be a fool," said he; "the bank goes sheer down, and that water is thirty feet deep if it's an inch. And if you once gets into the swirl, the Lord have mercy on ye."

Argus Bill uttered the concluding words with the impressiveness of a Lord Chief Justice.

"You just stop here, and watch it," he continued, "while I goes up to the ferry for a pole, or a boat-hook."

With the word, he disappeared over the bank; and Harry stood on the beach awaiting his return. And again the paper came to the surface of the water, and after floating for a while, it was gathered into the vortex and disappeared,—to rise and tantalise the watcher, and descend into the depths as before.

During one of these passages, it came so near, so very near to the beach, that Harry, unable to restrain himself, made a desperate clutch at it—caught it—overbalanced himself, and fell souse into the river. The impetus of the plunge carried him under, but he quickly rose to the surface, and struck out manfully for the bank.

It was only a few feet distant, but it might as well have been a thousand miles away. Harry was a vigorous and skilful swimmer, yet he was unable to get clear of the eddy. Some mysterious power seemed to grasp his legs, and drag him downwards; much as the under-tow of the ocean draws back the half-saved mariner. Icy cold, too, seemed that grasp, as the page 39veritable touch of Death. Struggle as he would, he could not force his way to the shore. He felt himself gradually but surely succumbing to the paralysing influence of the waters. Yet to the last he battled bravely on.

I have read, in many books, that when a man is drowning, all the events of his life pass before him. Possibly it may be so in some cases. But, as one who has undergone all the terrors of death by drowning, and, I may add, the more intolerable pangs of resuscitation, I am inclined to the opinion that this idea is a bit of purely imaginative sentimentalism. And I know at least two other men, of similar experiences, who agree with me herein.

One of these was Mr. Harry Grey, as he then chose to be called. His last sensations were those of disgust and despair.

"What," he thought, "is this to be the end of all? Am I to perish in a ditch, like a dog? Oh! Florence, will you ever know what has become of me?"

A wild cry, as of many voices—a dim vision, as of many forms hurrying towards him—a sense of irrepressible drowsiness—and, his efforts ceasing, he yielded to the irresistible power of the whirlpool, and resigned himself to the sleep of oblivion.

It would have been "the sleep that knows no waking," but that brave hearts and ready arms were near when the accident occurred. Down—far down the indraught bore his body, to cast it forth again in due course. And then a practised hand caught at his clothing with boat-hook and drew him ashore; the "Argus"—cause of all the mischief—still in his grasp.

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They carried him into the township, and fetched a brisk young medico, who first discharged his duty to suffering humanity, and then, when Harry was "brought to," as he expressed it, he turned round almost fiercely on the crowd, and demanded in the name of the Prince of Darkness, "who was to pay him for his trouble?"

Some four or five good fellows at once intimated their willingness to pay the medico's fees. And one rough, much-bearded miner threw a "fiver" on the table, with an exclamation which I would fain hope the Recording Angel blotted out, even as the oath of "mine Uncle Toby" was obliterated. And when Harry faintly avowed his ability to discharge all obligations, the "fiver" was recklessly expended by its owner in "shouting for all hands."

Presently Harry cried out for the newspaper, in the recovery of which he had imperilled his life. When it was brought to him, he opened it with trembling hands, and eagerly scanned its columns. With dry eyes, staring wildly, he gazed long at one particular announcement. And this—eliminating the flourishes—is what he read:—

"At St. James' Church, Melbourne, Florence Melmoth, of St. Kilda, to Justin M'Carthy, of Tamboura, Gippsland."

"And I loved her so!" he said, moaningly. Then he turned his face to the wall.