Full of hope and eagerness was Harry (one must call him by his boyish name still, though he is now a man of thirty-four), on his homeward voyage, over the running waves.
He had not seen much of the other passengers; in fact, he had kept almost entirely to himself, only entering into conversation with the captain, or any of the ship's crew that took his fancy. And many were the eyes of disappointment that in vain sought the friendship of the reserved, wealthy, homeward-bound Englishman.
He was talking to the man at the helm, when his eye caught sight of some one sitting, carelessly smoking, in a dangerous position near an open part of the ship's bulwarks. He abruptly ended his conversation, and walking across the deck, said—
"Excuse me, sir, but you are not in a very safe place."
The man addressed started, and as he turned hastily, as if to see who had presumed to dictate to him, slipped, and, clutching fruitlessly at Harry's outstretched arms, fell headlong into the sea. It was the work of a second, but in that second Harry had recognised Egerton's face!
"Man overboard! man overboard!" was the cry.
The vessel was running at a rapid pace through the water, so that she had already left the struggler in the waves, far behind.
"'Bout ship!" came the word of command; but long before the vessel answered to the helm, Harry had flung off his coat and hat, and leapt from the stern, down into the roaring waves, and striking out vigorously, reached Egerton.
It was a hard battle he had there with the waters, and he thought the boat, that speedily left the ship, would never reach them. With one hand he held up Egerton's head, while with the other he kept himself afloat. But the seconds, that seemed like hours, went on, and the boat did not come.
He was growing weaker, he knew it; his arm was stiffening, and Egerton struggling in the water with all the agony of a drowning man, hampered his movements and well nigh bore him under.