“You’ll get through all right. I’ll give yer a hand. I don’t care to go a mile round over the bridge.”
“Yes, that’s all very well, Mr. Jim, but I don’t want my boat smashed.”
“Smashed! I am a lucky one, I am. No harm comes to any boat or trap as long as I’m in it.”
The boatman consented. Just as he was about to push off, another man came down and asked for a passage. It was Tom Catchpole. Jim stared, but said nothing to him. The boatman also knew Tom, but did not speak. Jim now had half a mind to alter his intention of crossing.
“I don’t know as I’ll go,” said he. “It does look queer, and no mistake.”
“Well, don’t keep me a-waitin’, that’s all.”
Jim took his seat and went to the stern. Tom sat in the bow, and the boatman took the sculls. He had to make for a point far above the island, so as to allow for the current, and he just succeeded in clearing it. He then began to drift down to the landing-place in the comparatively still water between the island and the mainland.
Jim stood up with a boathook in his hand and laid hold of an overhanging willow in order to slacken their progress, but the hook stuck in the wood, and in an instant the boat was swept from under him and he was in the water. He went down like a stone, for he could not swim, but rose again just as he was passing. Tom leaned over the side, managed to catch him by the coat-collar and hold his head above water. Fortunately the boat had swung round somewhat, and in a few seconds struck the bank. It was made fast, and in an instant Jim was dragged ashore and was in safety.
“That’s a narrow squeak for you, Mr. Jim. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Catchpole you’d have been in another world by this time.”
Jim was perfectly sensible, but his eyes were fixed on Tom with a strange, steady stare.