Kirke was after the tailor. In three clean strokes he had passed him. His gimlet eyes were fixed on the figures of the two women in the water. With every nerve in his hard muscular body he strained towards them. He could see Delight's face now, white and still. But she must have seen him coming, for a piercing scream came from her cold lips:
"Help!"
That scream and the shock of the cold water were more than Mr. Mayberry could bear. He flung up his arms and in a weak voice echoed the cry—
"Help! I'm sinking."
Kirke turned on his side and threw an angry glance back at the tailor. He had a mind to let him sink. Still, the old cadger was better plucked than the string of goggle-eyed men that fringed the shore. Not one of them—yes, one—Bastien! Now, another—Fergussen!
"Help!" came weakly from Mr. Mayberry, and he sank out of sight.
Could these devils of girls on the shore see that a man was drowning? Or did they think it fun for men to be stoned in the water like stray cats? A piece of brick struck him on the head, inflicting a sharp pain.
"Hello, Kirke! Hello, Scotchie! What are you turning back for?" came with jeers and laughter, and a fresh volley of broken bricks.
Bastien and Fergussen had got the tailor between them.
"Come back, men!" shouted Lovering. "They vixens'll stone your heads in. Mrs. Jessop's trying to say something. Let's hear what she has to say."
The four men, perishing of cold, climbed on to the reedy shore. The constable and another began to apply first aid to Mayberry. Kirke turned on Lovering.
