And some
one flung a rope, and then another rope arrived out of the sea, and fell
on Denry's shoulder.
"Haul on there!" yelled a hoarse voice. The Bengal light expired.
Denry hauled with a will. The occasion was unique. And those few seconds
were worth to him the whole of Denry's precious life--yes, not excluding
the seconds in which he had kissed Ruth and the minutes in which he had
danced with the Countess of Chell. Then two men with beards took the
rope from his hands. The air was now alive with shoutings. Finally there
was a rush of men down the iron stairway to the lower part of the pier,
ten feet nearer the water.
"You stay here, you two!" Denry ordered.
"But, Denry--"
"Stay here, I tell you!" All the male in him was aroused. He was off,
after the rush of men. "Half a jiffy," he said, coming back. "Just take
charge of this, will you?" And he poured into their hands about twelve
shillings' worth of copper, small change of rents, from his hip-pocket.
"If anything happened, that might sink me," he said, and vanished.
It was very characteristic of him, that effusion of calm sagacity in a
supreme emergency.
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