There was a half-frightened shout, a flapping of the sails as the square-rigged ship fell out of the night wind for a moment, and then a clamour of loud voices.
"Over the side! Over the side! The man from Lisbon's gone."
Johnnie had jumped to the port taffrail at the noise, and he saw what had happened. He saw the whole of it quite distinctly. A long, lithe figure had been balancing itself upon the bulwarks, giving its body to the gentle motion of the ship.
Suddenly it fell backwards, there was a resounding splash in the quiet sea, and something black was struggling and threshing in a pool of silver water. From the sea came a loud cry—"Socorro! Socorro!"
From the time the splash was heard and the cry came up to the forecastle the ship had slipped a hundred yards through the still waters.
Johnnie jumped up upon the bulwarks, held his hands above his head for a moment, judged his distance—ships were not high out of the water in that day—and dived into the phosphorescent sea.
He was lightly clad, and he swam strongly, with the long left-arm overhand stroke—conquering an element with joy in the doing of it—glad to be in wild and furious action, happy to throw off the oppression of the dreadful things which the little Spaniard had droned upon the deck. He got up to the man easily enough, circled round him, as he rose splashing for the third time, and caught him under the arm-pits, lying on his back with the other above him.
The man began to struggle, trying to turn and grip.
Johnnie raised his head a little from the water, sinking as he did so, and pulling down the other also, and shouted a Spanish curse into his ear.
"Be quiet," he said; "lie still! If you don't I'll drown you!"