Tom Jecks made another snatch at him, but Ching avoided it, and to save him from further annoyance I too made a snatch.
Poor fellow, interpreter though he was, he misinterpreted my intentions. He tore away from my grasp and made a rush forward, but several men were coming in that direction, and he dashed back to find himself faced by Tom Jecks again. In his desperation he charged right at the sailor, lowering his head as he did so, and striking him with so much force that Tom Jecks went down sprawling, and Ching leaped over him.
There was no way open to him for escape, as it seemed, and he made a rush for the side, leaped up, was on the bulwarks in an instant, and made a snatch at the foremast shrouds as if to climb up into the rigging, when either his foot slipped or his long loose cotton jacket caught in something, I don’t know how it was, but one moment I saw him staggering, the next there was the terrible cry of “Man overboard” raised as I rushed toward the side, heard the splash, and got upon the bulwark in time to see the agitated water.
That was all.
It was rapidly getting dark, the tide was running swiftly seaward, and even if the Chinaman could swim it seemed very doubtful whether he could maintain himself long, hampered as he was by his loose clinging clothes.
But at the raising of the cry, “Man overboard,” there is not much time lost on board a man-of-war. A crew leaped into the boat; the falls were seized; and in a minute the keel touched the water, and I found myself, as I stood on the bulwark holding on by a rope, called upon to direct those who had gone.
“Which way, sir? See him?”
I could only answer no, and then reply to Mr Reardon, who came up panting.
“Who is it?” he cried. “Mr Herrick?”
“No, sir, I’m here,” I shouted. “It’s the interpreter.”