The Fire Trumpet: A Romance of the Cape Frontier

“To my valued friend, Arthur Claverton, I bequeath the sum of nine thousand pounds.”
He to whom this announcement was made could not repress a start of surprise. The only other occupant of the room paused and laid down the document from which he had been reading. The room was a solicitor’s office.
“You hardly expected to be remembered, then?” said the latter.
“No. At least I won’t say that, exactly; but nothing like to such an extent. I thought poor Spalding might have left me some trifle to remember him by—his pet breechloader, or something of the kind; but, candidly, I never expected anything like this!”
“Yet you saved his life, once.”
“Pooh! Nothing at all. The weather was hot, and the swim did me good. If I hadn’t gone in, the nearest Jack Tar would have, and have thought nothing of it; nor do I. Poor Spalding!”
The speaker is a man of about thirty to all appearance. His face, which is a handsome and a refined one, wears a look of firmness, not unmixed with recklessness. It is the countenance of one who has seen a good deal of the world, and knows thoroughly well how to take care of himself. The other man is more than twice his age, and looks what he is—every inch the comfortable, well-preserved family solicitor.
“I don’t know about that, Mr Claverton,” answered the latter. “The story our poor friend told me was something very different. The vessel was going at thirteen knots, the night being pitch dark, and a heavy sea running. And no one saw him fall overboard but yourself.”
The other laughed in a would-be careless way. “Oh, well, I think you are making too much of it. But the job was a risky one, I admit, and at one time I did think we should never be picked up. And now, Mr Smythe, I’m going to ask you a question that you may think queer. First of all, you knew my poor friend intimately for a good many years?”
“I did. When first I made his acquaintance, Herbert Spalding was a little chap in Eton jackets. I’ve known him tolerably intimately ever since.”