"Hark 'ee, Tom Puckinharn, let this be the last of thy drinking. Will 'ee promise?"
"Umsh—Yes—I promise."
"A man is always wuss off when he drinks. His money is gone, 'is time is gone, and 'is health is gone, and he winds by going into the Union Poor House. Now here I am,—I, Tom Glaze, champion Cornish wrastler and all round fighter, and I ne'er would be so had I took to drink. There was Jack Trewlan, champion before me, stout and strong, the champion of a dozen battles, and I thrawed 'im in ten minutes. I got an under holt and heaved 'im over my shoulders, and 'e went down like a bullock. Cause why? Cause 'e took to drink."
"'Ark!" said Tommy. "Wasn't that a woman's cry?"
They listened and the cry was repeated.
"'Urry up," said Glaze, "some woman in distress,—upon a foach if thee art drunk, 'ee can run a bit."
Away they went in the direction of the quay from which the shriek came, Tommy's uncle ahead, while he himself lurched along in the rear, like a distressed ship in a storm. They arrived at the entrance of the pier, and saw by the glimmering, flickering light of the lamp, at its head, a woman struggling in the grasp of a burly man. A coach swept by them at this moment and passed around the corner and up market street.
"Bring her along, Bob," cried a voice from a boat at the landing.
Bully Bob, for it was he, seeing the approach of newcomers, redoubled his efforts, when he received a blow that staggered him and he released his grasp. The woman ran screaming to her rescuers and Glaze placed himself in front of her. Bully Bob, recovering from the sudden assault, rushed in wrath at his aggressor, crying fiercely, "I'll eat 'ee up!"
Glaze grasped him with a quick, deft movement, and with a heave, threw him over his shoulder into the deep harbour water beyond. There was a cry of rage, and then a splash, and then the sound of oars in a long, steady pull, rounding the head of the pier.