“Some of you think of ’em down here, though,” remarks Jones. “Do you help the cause in any way, sir?”
“Me? No. Never gave a shilling to it.”
“Well, never mind. It’s your turn now, sir. Come along. We’ll save you. Jump!” cries Jones.
And they do save him, and all on board of that ill-fated ship, with as much heartfelt satisfaction as if the rescued ones had each been a contributor of a thousand a year to the lifeboat cause.
“Don’t forget us, sir, when you gits home,” whispers Jones to Brown at parting.
And does Brown forget him? Nay, verily! He goes home to Blunderton, stirs up the people, hires the town-hall, gets the chief magistrate to take the chair, and forms a Branch of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution—the Blunderton Branch, which, ever afterwards, honourably bears its annual share in the expense, and in the privilege, of rescuing men, women, and little ones from the raging seas. Moreover, Brown becomes the enthusiastic secretary of the Branch. And here let me remark that no society of this nature can hope to succeed, unless its secretary be an enthusiast.
Now, reader, if you think I have made out a good case, let me entreat you to go, with Brown in your eye, “and do likewise.”
And don’t fancy that I am advising you to attempt the impossible. The supposed Blunderton case is founded on fact. During a lecturing tour one man—somewhat enthusiastic in the lifeboat cause—preached the propriety of inland towns starting Branches of the Lifeboat Institution. Upwards of half a dozen such towns responded to the exhortation, and, from that date, have continued to be annual contributors and sympathisers.