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Page 7
As quickly Jack clasped his hands and dived from his boat. He came to
the top and swam forward with desperate strokes. He saw the upturned
canoe, the floating paddle, the half-submerged Tam-o'-Shanter. Then a
mass of dripping golden hair cleft the surface, only to sink at once.
But Jack had marked the spot, and, taking a full breath, he dived. To
the onlookers the interval seemed painfully long, and a hundred cheering
voices rent the air as the young artist rose to view, keeping himself
afloat with one arm, while the other supported the girl. She was
conscious, but badly scared and disposed to struggle.
"Be quite still," Jack said, sharply. "You are in no danger--I will save
you if you trust me."
The girl obeyed, looking into Jack's eyes with a calmer expression. The
steamer had stopped, and half a dozen row-boats were approaching from
different directions. A grizzled waterman and his companion picked up
the two and pulled them across to Strand-on-the-Green. Others followed
towing Jack's boat and the canoe, and the big steamer proceeded on her
way to Kew Pier.
The Black Bull, close by the railway bridge, received the drenched
couple, and the watermen were delighted by the gift of a sovereign. A
motherly woman took the half-dazed girl upstairs, and Jack was led into
the oak-panelled parlor of the old inn by the landlord, who promptly
poured him out a little brandy, and then insisted on his having a change
of clothing.
"Thank you; I fear I must accept your offer," said Jack. "But I hope you
will attend to the young lady first. Your wife seemed to know her."
"Quite well, sir," was the reply. "Bless you, we all know Miss Madge
Foster hereabouts. She lives yonder at the lower end of the Green--"
"Then she had better be taken home."
"I think this is the best place for her at present, sir. Her father is
in town, and there is only an old servant."
"You are quite right," said Jack. "I suppose there is a doctor near by."
"There is, sir, and I will send for him at once," the landlord promised.
"If you will kindly step this way--"
At that moment there was a stir among the curious idlers who filled the
entrance passage of the inn. An authoritative voice opened a way between
them, and a man pushed through to the parlor. His face changed color at
the sight of Jack, who greeted him with a cry of astonishment.
CHAPTER III.
AN OLD FRIEND
There was gladness as well as surprise in Jack's hearty exclamation, for
the man who stood before him in the parlor of the Black Bull was his old
friend Victor Nevill, little altered in five years, except for a heavier
mustache that improved his dark and handsome face. To judge from
appearances, he had not run through with all his money. He was daintily
booted and gloved, and wore morning tweeds of perfect cut; a sprig of
violets was thrust in his button-hole. The two had not met since they
parted in Paris on that memorable night, nor had they known of each
other's whereabouts.
"Nevill, old chap!" cried Jack, holding out a hand.
Nevill clasped it warmly; his momentary confusion had vanished.
"My dear Clare--" he began.
"Not that name," Jack interrupted, laughingly. "I'm called Vernon on
this side of the Channel."
"What, John Vernon, the rising artist?"
"The same."
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