“Give—my love—to everybody,” said Blundell, faintly. “Good-bye, Venia. Good-bye, Mr. Turnbull.”
“Where’s that barrel?” demanded the stout fisherman, crisply. “Going to be all night with it? Now, two of you——”
Mr. Blundell, with a great effort, and assisted by Venia and the sergeant, sat up. He felt that he had made a good impression, and had no desire to spoil it by riding the barrel. With one exception, everybody was regarding him with moist-eyed admiration. The exception’s eyes were, perhaps, the moistest of them all, but admiration had no place in them.
“You’re all being made fools of,” he said, getting up and stamping. “I tell you he pushed me overboard for the purpose.”
“Oh, father! how can you?” demanded Venia, angrily. “He saved your life.”
“He pushed me in,” repeated the farmer. “Told me to look at a jelly-fish and pushed me in.”
“What for?” inquired Sergeant Daly.
“Because—” said Mr. Turnbull. He looked at the unconscious sergeant, and the words on his lips died away in an inarticulate growl.
“What for?” pursued the sergeant, in triumph. “Be reasonable, Mr. Turnbull. Where’s the reason in pushing you overboard and then nearly losing his life saving you? That would be a fool’s trick. It was as fine a thing as ever I saw.”
“What you ’ad, Mr. Turnbull,” said the stout fisherman, tapping him on the arm, “was a little touch o’ the sun.”