“Lor’! Look at that,” cried the man addressed as Gadly, and with an ugly grin overspreading his face as the love of baiting came uppermost. “Come away, Joe; he means mischief. Look out or there’ll be another murder done.”
Thud!
It was as quick as lightning. Chris Lisle’s left fist flashed out, caught the man full in the cheek, and he staggered back, tried to save himself, and then tripped over a rope and fell heavily upon the stones, while his assailant glared round seeking another victim as a low angry murmur rose.
“You coward!” he growled between his teeth.
“Ay, and sarve him gashly well right,” said the sturdy fisherman, who had had his hands up to his eyes, and had addressed Chris. “He is a coward to say that there. Howd off, my lads, and let him bide. There’s been quite enough o’ this gashly jaw. I don’t believe you did kill the old man, Mr Chris, sir, and there’s my hand on it.”
He thrust out his great brown hairy, horny paw, and it was like help held forth to a drowning man. Chris grasped the hand with both of his, and stood gazing full in the rough fellow’s eyes, his face working, his breast heaving, and a great struggle going on as he tried to speak, while the little group around looked on at the strange scene.
It was the first kindly word man seemed to have spoken to him all those weary months, and Chris, completely overcome, strove hard to utter his thanks, but for a time nothing would come. At last it was in a low, hoarse murmur that he said—
“God bless you for that, my man!” and hurried back to his room.
“And you call yourselves mates,” growled the fisherman, who had prudently kept in a reclining position, and who now slowly rose; “and you call yourselves mates. Why, you ought to ha’ chucked him off the wall.”
“And I felt so happy!” groaned Chris; “and I felt so happy!”