Blair stamped emphatically on his hollow throne, until it rang again.
"Down with the English!" echoed the crowd in a burst of enthusiasm.
At this moment a short, stout lad came round a neighboring corner. On his arm he carried a large basket of clean linen, with which he now tried to elbow his way through the crowd.
"An English boy! Shame that he should show his face among us," said Blair in his excitement.
"We'll give him a taste of salt water," said two or three of the oldest boys as they seized the stranger roughly by the shoulders. "We'll teach him to mend his manners."
"Stop, stop, boys. Give him fair play," shouted Blair; but Blair was no longer the object of attention.
The English boy, in spite of his struggles, was hurried to the edge of the wharf, and pushed relentlessly over the brink.
A thorough ducking to him, and the scattering of his precious basket of clothes, was all that the young rascals intended. To their horror, the stranger sank like a heavy load—rose, and then sank again.
"He can't swim; he can't swim. He'll be drowned!" burst from the lips of the spectators. All were paralyzed with fear.
Blair had forced his way through the crowd, and reached the edge of the wharf in time to see the pale, agonized face of the English boy, as he for the second time rose to the surface. In another moment Blair was diving where, far in the deep water, the pale face had vanished from sight.