“You were foolhardy enough an hour ago,” said the school-master. “Won’t one of you venture on to your own dam to help a drowning man?”
“There’s none on us can swim, sir,” said John Binder. “It’s a bad job”—and he gave a sob that made me begin to cry again, and several other people too—“but where’d be t’ use of drowning five or six more atop of him?”
“Can any of you run if you can’t swim?” said the school-master. “Get a stout rope—as fast as you can, and send somebody for the doctor and a bottle of brandy, and a blanket or two to carry him home in. Jack! Hold these.”
I took his watch and his purse, and he went down the bank and walked on to the ice; but after a time his feet went through as the skater’s head had gone.
“It ain’t a bit of use. There’s nought to be done,” said the bystanders: for, except those who had run to do Mr. Wood’s bidding, we were all watching and all huddled closer to the edge than ever. The school-master went down on his hands and knees, on which a big lad, with his hands in his trouser-pockets, guffawed.
“What’s he up to now?” he asked.
“Thee may haud thee tongue if thee can do nought,” said a mill-girl who had come up. “I reckon he knows what he’s efter better nor thee.” She had pushed to the front, and was crouched upon the edge, and seemed very much excited. “God
bless him for trying to save t’ best lad in t’ village i’ any fashion, say I! There’s them that’s nearer kin to him and not so kind.”
Perhaps the strict justice of this taunt prevented a reply (for there lurks some fairness in the roughest of us), or perhaps the crowd, being chiefly men knew from experience that there are occasions when it is best to let a woman say her say.
“Ye see he’s trying to spread hisself out,” John Binder explained in pacific tones. “I reckon he thinks it’ll bear him if he shifts half of his weight on to his hands.”