“You’ll drown us both, you——!” he gasped.
“It would bear me,” replied the passenger, “and you shouldn’t swear, Johnny.”
Johnny blubbered and swore again.
For an instant the passenger, resting as lightly as he could on the spar, watched Johnny’s face.
“You’ve kept afloat some time,” he observed, with an approving air. He liked pluck in boys—even ugly whimpering boys. His end went under, and he came up gurgling and spitting. He felt now as if he had no legs at all.
Johnny had stopped swearing, but was blubbering worse than ever.
“Damn it,” said the passenger, “haven’t I made enough people do that?” And he added, “Ta-ta, Johnny,” and let go the spar.
His legs were there, after all, and they let him know it. For time unmeasured he battled for the life he was weary of, and would not let himself be pushed through the open door. But at last he crossed its threshold.
Johnny was drowned too. But then the passenger had always protested against his acts being judged by their consequences; and it doesn’t seem fair to take it against him both ways.