“For God’s sake make an effort—I can’t help you else. Get your arms round my neck, Jordan.”
The other obeyed and in a few moments he was safe. Ned fished his cap out of the water, wrung it and handed it to him.
“I’m bitter sorry—my cursed temper.”
Kellock sat down for a moment and pressed the water out of his clothes. He was quite calm.
“I dare say it was natural,” he answered. “If you’d but listened—”
“You can’t listen to things if you’re in hell. Take my arm. No good biding here. I’ll see you to your house. You can have the law of me. I deserve it. I’m no bloody good to anybody in the world now-a-days. Better I was locked up, I reckon.”
“Don’t talk rot. We’re all learners. You’ve learned me something anyway. See me home. I’m dazed, but I shall be all right in a minute. And don’t let on about this. I shall say I slipped on the edge of the water and fell in and bruised my head—just an accident and my fault. And so it was my fault.”
“I won’t have that. You rub it in. I’ve earned it. I shall tell the people what I am, if you don’t.”
“That won’t do,” answered the other. “Think of me as well as yourself in that matter. You’re popular; I’m not; and if they hear you’ve knocked me into the water, they’ll say there was a reason for it.”
Dingle did not answer, but he knew this to be true.