CHAPTER II
DICK ATHERTON'S GOOD TURN
On the following Wednesday afternoon Leader Dick Atherton, of the "Otters," was invited to his chum Gregson's to tea. Gregson was a day boarder whose people lived at Brixton. He wished very much to join the Scouts, but his parents strongly objected. This was a source of keen disappointment both to Gregson and Atherton, for instinctively they realised that there was bound to be an ever-widening gap in their friendship.
Dick Atherton was a good specimen of a British school-boy. He was sixteen years of age, fairly tall, and with long supple limbs and a frame that showed promise of filling out. At present he was, like a good many other lads of his age, growing rapidly. Plenty of outdoor exercise and an abundance of plain wholesome food had turned the scale, for instead of becoming a lank, over-studious youth he showed every promise of developing into a strong, muscular man.
One of the first to avail themselves of Mr Trematon's offer to become Scouts, Dick Atherton was by the unanimous vote of the patrol appointed Leader of the "Otters." He took particular pains to prove himself worthy of the honour his comrades had paid him, with the result that he soon gained his Ambulance, Cycling, Pathfinder, Swimming and Signalling badges.
Scoutmaster Trematon was strongly opposed to the idea of any lad hastily qualifying for badges merely for the sake of having the right sleeve decorated by a number of fanciful symbols; he preferred to find a Scout making himself thoroughly proficient, and keeping himself up to a state of efficiency in a comparatively few number of subjects, rather than a slipshod scramble for badges that could only be regarded in a similar light to the trophies of a "pothunter."
Dick Atherton, as did most of his comrades, saw the good sense of his Scoutmaster's wishes. Therein he laid the foundations of his success in after life: he specialised. It would be hard to find another Scout in the whole of the London Troops who could excel Atherton in any of the branches he had taken up. To the Scouts' motto "Be prepared" he instinctively added another, "Be thorough."
Shortly after six o'clock Atherton bade his friends farewell and started on his return journey to Collingwood College. It was imperative that he should be back before a quarter to eight in time for evening "prep."
A heavy mist, almost a fog, had settled down earlier in the afternoon, driving most people to the Tubes. Atherton, however, preferred to take a motor-bus.
As the vehicle was passing under the railway viaduct in the Waterloo Road it skidded on the greasy surface and dashing into the kerb smashed the nearside fore-wheel. The Scout promptly alighted, thinking that perhaps he might be of assistance. To his request the motorman curtly told him to "Chuck it and clear out," advice that Atherton deemed it expedient to carry out.
Just then he remembered that to-morrow was Fred Simpson's birthday. Simpson was the Leader of the "Wolves," and a jolly good sort, and Atherton resolved to spend the remainder of his weekly allowance in some small present for his chum. Stamp-collecting was one of Simpson's hobbies, and Atherton knew that it was his ambition to get a set of Servian "Death Masks."
"I saw a set in a shop in the Strand only last week," thought Atherton. "I'll take a short cut across Hungerford Bridge, buy the stamps if they are still to be had, and pick up the Tube at Charing Cross. There will be ample time if I make haste."
The approach to the bridge consists of a fairly steep wooden gangway with an abrupt turning at its upper end. The worn planks were slippery with mud, while, being close to the river, the mist seemed denser than ever. From the bridge it was just possible to see the outlines of the adjoining brewery and the tiers of heavy barges lying on the reeking mud, for the tide had almost ceased to ebb.
Less than half-way across the bridge Atherton saw the figures of two men. One was leaning over the low parapet, the other, hands in pockets and his hat stuck on the back of his head, was looking fixedly along the narrow footway. Suddenly the latter poked his companion in the ribs and pointed at the oncoming Scout; then both men turned and leant over the parapet as if interested in the swirl of yellow water twenty or thirty feet beneath them.
"What can their interest be in me, I wonder?" thought Atherton. "No use showing the white feather. I'll walk straight past them—but I'll 'Be prepared.'"
Somewhat to his surprise the two men took particular care to keep their faces averted. But swiftly as he walked by the Scout did not forget the value of unobtrusive observation.
"No. 1.—Height about five feet five, broad shouldered, short legs; back of neck dirty yellow, hair black and long, showing a tendency to curl. Clothes: a billy-cock hat, soiled stand-up collar, with a frayed yellow-and-black necktie showing above the back collar-stud, coat rusty black, circular patch of deep black material on left elbow; trousers grey, frayed at bottoms; boots pale yellow, badly in need of a clean, and much worn on the outside of each heel.
"No. 2.—Height five feet ten, back of neck red, iron-grey hair closely cut, shoulders bent, legs long, feet planted well apart. Cloth cap; blue woollen scarf, blue serge coat and trousers, black boots that had apparently been treated with dubbin. Should take him to be a seafaring man; more than likely a bargeman. I feel pretty certain that I could pick out these men in a crowd of——"
A stifled shout for aid was faintly borne to the Scout's ears. He stopped, turned, then without hesitation ran as hard as he could in the direction from which he had come. The mist hid the two men from his sight, while at the same time a light engine running slowly over the adjacent bridge threw out a dense cloud of steam that, beaten down by the moist atmosphere, made it impossible for Atherton to see more than a yard ahead.
Once more came the cry, this time nearer, but gurgling, as if the victim's mouth was being held by one of his assailants. Imitating a man's voice, the Scout shouted. Just then the cloud of steam was wafted away, and Atherton was able to see what was taking place.
The two men he had previously passed were struggling fiercely with a tall, elderly gentleman, who in spite of his grey hairs was strenuously resisting. Even as the Scout dashed up, the two rascals deliberately lifted their victim over the iron balustrade. There was a stifled shriek followed by a heavy plash, while the assailants bolted as fast as their legs could carry them.
Three or four pedestrians, looming out of the mist, promptly stood aside to let the hurrying men pass. The former made no attempt to stop the fugitives. All they did was to stand still and gaze after them till they were lost to sight.
"A man has been thrown into the river!" shouted Atherton. "Run down to the Charing Cross Pier and get them to send out a boat."
Throwing off his coat and shoes the Scout climbed over a parapet and lowered himself till his whole weight was supported by his hands. There he hung for a brief instant. He realised that the drop was a long one, and in addition there was the possibility of falling not into the water but upon the deck of a barge that might at that moment be shooting under the bridge. In that case it might mean certain death, or at least broken limbs.
Shutting his eyes and keeping his legs tightly closed and straight out, Atherton released his hold and dropped. He hit the water with tremendous force, descending nearly ten feet. Instinctively he swam to the surface and, shaking the water from his hair and eyes, struck out down stream.
Twenty yards from him, and just visible in the murky atmosphere, he caught sight of a dark object just showing above the surface. The next moment it vanished. Putting all his energy into his strokes Atherton swam to the spot and, guided by the bubbles, dived. It seemed a forlorn hope, for at a few feet below the surface the thick yellow water was so opaque that he could not distinguish his hands as he struck out. For nearly half a minute the brave lad groped blindly. His breath, already sorely taxed by the force of his drop from the bridge, was failing him. He must come to the surface ere he could renew his vague search. Just as he was on the point of swimming upwards his left hand came into contact with a submerged object. His grip tightened. With a thrill of satisfaction he realised that he had hold of the victim of the outrage.
Thank Heaven, the surface at last! Turning on his back Atherton drew in a full breath of the dank yet welcome air, then shifting his grasp to the collar of the rescued man drew him face uppermost to the surface. To all appearance the old gentleman was dead. His eyes were wide open, his lips parted, his features were as white as his hair.
The Scout looked about him. His vision was limited to a circle of less than fifty yards in radius; beyond this the mist enveloped everything. The Embankment, the bridges, the Surrey side—all were invisible. But above the noise of the traffic on the Embankment and the rumble of the trains across the river came the dull roar of voices, for already a dense crowd had gathered almost as soon as the alarm had been given by the hitherto apathetic pedestrians on the foot-bridge.
"The wind was blowing down stream," thought Atherton. "If I keep it on my left I ought to strike shore somewhere, so here goes."
Still swimming on his back, and holding up the head of the rescued man, the Scout headed towards the Middlesex side. His progress was slow, for his burden was a serious drag, and his strength had already undergone a severe strain. His clothes, too, were a great impediment. Had it been clear weather Atherton would have been content to keep himself afloat till picked up by a boat, but he did not relish the idea of drifting aimlessly on the bosom of old Father Thames; his plan was to make for land, hoping to reach the Embankment somewhere in the neighbourhood of the steps by Cleopatra's Needle.
All this while, owing to a slight veering of the wind, Atherton was swimming, not towards the shore, but almost down stream. He wondered faintly why his feet had not yet touched the mud. More than once he thrust his legs down to their fullest extent, hoping to find something offering more resistance than water, but each time his hopes were not realised.
He was momentarily growing weaker. His movements were little more than mechanical, yet not for one instant did he think of abandoning his burden to save himself. His clothing seemed to hang about his limbs like lead. Ofttimes he had practised swimming in trousers, shirt and socks—for one of the Scouts' swimming tests is to cover fifty yards thus attired; but he had already covered more than four times that distance, while, in addition, he was heavily handicapped by having to tow another person.
Presently a dull throbbing fell upon the Scout's ears.
"A steamboat," he muttered. "Wonder if she'll come this way."
And expending a considerable amount of his sorely tried breath he shouted for aid. A sharp blast upon a steam-whistle was the response, while a hoarse voice bawled, "Where are you, my man?"
"Here," replied Atherton vaguely, for owing to the mist the direction in which the sound came from was quite unable to be located.
Fortunately the steamboat was heading almost down upon the nearly exhausted lad. Her bows, magnified out of all proportion, loomed through the misty atmosphere.
"Stop her!" shouted the coxswain to the engineer, then, "Stand by with your boathook, Wilson."
Losing way, the boat—one of the Metropolitan Police launches—was brought close alongside the rescuer and the rescued. The bowman, finding the lad within arm's length, dropped his boathook, and leaning over the gunwale, grasped Atherton by the shoulder. The coxswain came to his aid, and the victim of the outrage was hauled into safety.