3“ONCE A WEEK. [October >2, 1850.
words, and I think yon make a mistake; for he can shoot like one o'clock, never misses a thing, and I hear he can ride no end. He was rather out of practice in his cricket when he came down; but he is improving every day. You should have seen the hit he made yesterday — right up to the cedars.”
“Do you think there is nothing else for a man to do, but ride, and shoot, and play cricket?”
“Oh! that's all very well; but you should hear what Merton, our second master says; and a great brick he is, too. I Whatever you do, do it as well as you can, whether it’s cricket or verses.' And I believe if Tyrawley had to fight, he’d go in and win, and no mistake.”
“Ah I” said Constance, with a sigh, “he has evidently — what is it you boys call it? — tipped you. Isn't it?”
Indignant at this insult, George walked off to find his friend, and have a lesson in billiards.
The day lingered on, after the usual fashion of wet days in September in full country houses. There was a little dancing after dinner; but all re- tired early in hopes of a finer day on the morrow.
Tyrawley had some letters to write, so that it was past two before he thought of going to bed. He always slept with his window open, and as he threw up the sash, a fierce gust of wind blew out his candles, and blew down the looking-glass.
“Pleasant^ by Jove!” he soliloquised. “I wonder whether it’s smashed — unlucky to break a looking-glass — I’m hanged if I know where the matches are; never mind; I can find my way to bed in the dark. What a night,” as a flash of lightning illumined the room for a moment, and he bent out of the window. “The wind must be about nor-nor-west. Cheerful for anything com- ine up to Bristol from the southward. I wonder what a storm is like on this coast. I have a great mind to go and see. I shall never be able to get that hall-door open without waking them up; what a nuisance! Stay, capital idea! I'll go by the window.”
Before starting upon his expedition, he changed the remains of Ins evening dress (for he had been writing in his dressing-gown) for a flannel shirt and trousers, whilst a short pea-jacket and glazed hat completed his array. His room was on the first floor, and he had intended to drop from the window-sill; but the branch of an elm came so near, he found that unnecessary, as springing to it he was on the ground, like a cat, in an instant. He soon found his way across country “like a bird,” to the edge of the cliff. The sea for miles seemed one sheet of foam.
But a flash of lightning discovered a group of figures about a quarter of a mile distant; and he distinguished shouts in the intervals of the storm.
He was soon amongst them, and he found that all eyes were turned on a vessel which had struck on a rock within two hundred yards of the cliff. It was evident that she would go to pieces under their very eyes.
“Is there no way of opening communication with her,” he asked of an old coast-guard man.
“Why ye see, sir, we have sent to Bilford for Manby’s rockets; but she must break up before they come.”
“How far is it to Bilford?”
“Better than seven mile, your honour.”
“If we could get a rope to them, we might save the crew.”
“Every one of them, your honour; but it ain’t possible.”
“I think a man might swim out.”
“The first wave would dash him to pieces against the cliff.”
“What depth of water below?”
“The cliff goes down like a wall, forty fathom, at least.”
“The deeper the better. What distance to the water?”
“A good fifty feet.”
“Well, I have dived off the main yard of the Chesapeake. Now listen to me. Have you got some light, strong rope?”
“As much as you like.”
“Well, take a double coil round my chest, and do you take care to pay it out fast enough as I draw upon it.”
“You won’t draw much after the first plunge; it will be the same thing as suicide, every bit.”
“Well, we shall see. There’s no time to be lost: lend me a knife.”
And in an instant he whipped off his hat, boots, and pea-jacket, then with the knife he cut off its sleeves and passed the rope through them, that it might chafe him less.
The eyes of the old boatman brightened. There was evidently a method in his madness. “You are a very good swimmer, I suppose, sir?”
“I have dived through the surf at Nukuheva a few times.”
“I never knew a white man that could do that.”
Tyrawley smiled. “But whatever you do,” he said, “mind and let me have plenty of rope. Now out of the way, my friends, and let me have a clear start.”
He walked slowly to the edge of the cliff, looked over to see how much the rook shelved outwards; then returned, looked to see that there was plenty of rope for him to carry out, then took a short run, and leaped as if from the springing- board of a plunging-bath. He touched the water full five-and-twenty feet from the edge of the cliff. Down into its dark depth he went, like a plummet, but soon to rise again. As he reached the surface he saw the crest of a mighty wave a few yards in front of him — the wave that he had been told was to dash him lifeless against the cliff
But now his old experience of the Pacific stands him in good stead. For two moments he draws breath, then, ere it reaches him, he dives be- low its centre. The water dashes against the cliff, but the swimmer rises far beyond it. A faint cheer rises from the shore as they feel him draw upon the rope. The waves follow in succession, and he dives again and again, rising like an otter to take breath, making very steadily onward, though more below the water than above it.
We must now turn to the ship. The waves have made a clean breach over her bows. The crew are crowded upon the stem. They hold on
to the bulwarks, and await the end, for no boat