Chapter 6

"Constable John Jenkins was on duty on Waterloo Bridge at 2.45 a.m., on the 14th July, 1882, when he saw a man mount the parapet and throw himself into the river. Without hesitation, the constable unfastened his belt, and jumped from the bridge after him. Notwithstanding a determined resistance on the part of the would-be suicide, Constable Jenkins succeeded in seizing the man and supporting him above water until both were picked up some distance down the river by a boat, which was promptly sent from the Thames Police Station. The danger incurred in this rescue may be fairly estimated when it appears that the height jumped was forty-three feet, the tide was running out under the arches at the rate of six miles an hour, and a thick mist covered the river, so much so as to render it impossible to see any object in the centre of the river from either side. The place where the men entered the water was a hundred and seventy yards from shore."

WALTER CLEVERLEY.

"On the 13th September, 1883, the steamship _Rewa_ was proceeding through the Gulf of Aden, when a Lascar fell overboard. Being unable to swim, he drifted astern rapidly. Mr. Walter Cleverley, a passenger, promptly jumped overboard, swam to the man--then fifty yards from the ship--and assisted him to a life-buoy, which was previously thrown. The vessel was going thirteen knots an hour. Captain Hay, commanding the ship, states: 'The danger incurred was incalculable, as the sea thereabouts is infested with sharks. The salvor was forty minutes in the water, supporting the man. Cleverley jumped off top of the poop, a height of thirty feet to the surface of the water.'"

LIEUT. THE HON. WILLIAM GRIMSTON, R.N.

"On the 29th August, 1884, off Beyrout, H.M.S. _Alexandra_ was steaming at the rate of four knots an hour, when a man fell overboard. Lieut. the Hon. William Grimston dropped from his port into the sea, and succeeded in holding the man on the surface of the water until two seamen (who had jumped overboard) came to his assistance. The special danger in this rescue is brought to the Society's notice by Captain Rawson, R.N., commanding the ship. The port through which the officer had to drop is very small, and situated just before the double screw, which was then revolving: in fact, the salvor passed through the circle made by it."

ALFRED COLLINS, aged 21, Fisherman.

"The fishing lugger _Water Nymph_, of Looe, was seven or eight miles east-south-east of the 'Eddystone,' on the night of the 16th December, 1884, when a boy named Hoskings fell overheard, and was soon about eighty feet astern. The captain of the boat, Alfred Collins, immediately jumped in to the rescue, carrying the end of a rope with him; he was clothed in oilskins and sea-boots. After a great deal of difficulty Hoskings was reached and pulled on board. At the time this gallant act was performed there was a gale of wind blowing, with heavy rain, and the night was dark. The Silver Medal was voted to Alfred Collins on the 20th January, 1885."

CAPTAIN H. N. MCRAE, 45th (Rattray's) Sikhs (assisted by Captain H. Holmes).

"At 5 a.m. on the 5th October, 1886, a trumpeter of the Royal Artillery was crossing the compound of Captain Holmes's bungalow at Rawal Pindi, when he fell into a well. On hearing the alarm, Captain Holmes, Captain McRae, and Lieutenant Taylor proceeded to the spot. On arriving they found that Mr. Grose had preceded them, and had let down a well-rope, which was of sufficient length to reach the soldier and capable of sustaining him for a time. Both Captain McRae and Captain Holmes volunteered to go down, but as the former was a light-weight it was decided that he should make the trial, Captain Holmes demurring, as he wished to undertake the risk himself. The rope being very weak, it could not possibly have borne Captain Holmes's great weight. Captain McRae was accordingly let down by means of a four-strand tent rope, and on reaching the water found the soldier practically insensible; he therefore decided to go up with him. Captain Holmes was at the head of the rope, and his strength enabled him to lift both completely. At every haul, the amount gained was held in check by the other persons above. After hauling up about 10 ft. or 15 ft., the rope broke, precipitating Captain McRae and his charge to the bottom of the well. A second attempt was then made, and both were brought to the surface. The depth of the well was 88 ft., of which 12 ft. was water. It was quite dark at the time. Very great personal risk was incurred by Captain McRae. The Silver Medal was unanimously voted to him."

MR. JAS. POWER.

"On the 16th August, 1890, about 12.30 p.m., two ladies had a narrow escape from drowning whilst bathing at Tramore, Co. Waterford. Mr. Jas. Power, who ran out from an adjacent hotel on hearing the alarm, saw a young man with a life-buoy struggling in the sea about 150 yards from shore; further out, and fully 250 yards from the beach, two ladies appeared to be in imminent danger, being rapidly carried out by the strong ebb tide. Mr. Power first swam to the young man, but finding that he was unable to swim and could not dispense with the life-buoy, he turned on his back and towed the man with the life-buoy out to where the ladies were, and then with the aid of the buoy he brought the three safely to land. The Silver Medal was voted to Mr. Jas. Power."

JOHN CONNELL, Boatman, Coastguard Service.

"About 4 a.m. on the 19th October, 1890, the sailing vessel _Genesta_, of Grimsby, became stranded on the Yorkshire coast near Withernsea. Three of the crew were safely landed in the breeches buoy, after communication had been effected by means of the rocket apparatus, but one man, who had taken refuge in the crosstrees, was unable from exhaustion to avail himself of the means afforded. The ship's mate attempted to get him clear of the rigging, but the man seemed powerless to help himself, yet equal to holding on tenaciously at his post. In this position the man was left until John Connell gallantly went off to the vessel and rescued him at considerable personal risk. The ship was bumping, and might have gone to pieces at any moment. The weather was so bad that one man died in the rigging from exhaustion. The Silver Medal was awarded to John Connell."

POLICE-CONSTABLE WM. PENNETT.

"About one o'clock a.m., on the 25th November, 1890, Constable Pennett, being on duty at Tower Hill, saw a man throw himself into the Thames, apparently with the intention of committing suicide. He at once divested himself of lamp and belt, and without waiting to take off his uniform, jumped into the river, seized hold of the struggling man, and gallantly rescued him. The night was dark. The magistrate who investigated the case strongly commended the constable's courage and presence of mind. The Silver Medal was awarded to Constable Wm. Pennett."

SULEIMAN GIRBY.

(Chief Boatman to Messrs. Thos. Cook and Son, at Jaffa.)

"The Russian steamer _Ichihatchoff_ was wrecked on the rocks of Jaffa on the 18th February, 1891. More than twenty passengers had been swept away before anything was done to save life. At 6.30 a.m., on the 19th February, Girby and his brothers launched a boat, and proceeded to the vessel, from whence they brought off a number of the passengers and landed them. In making a second attempt their boat was smashed against the inner reef, and it was found impossible to launch another.

"Girby then swam backwards and forwards to the vessel fifteen times, bringing someone with him to shore each time. The Silver Medal was voted to Suleiman Girby."

"At 8 p.m. on the 26th April, 1891, the French frigate _Seignelay_ parted anchors, and was carried on to the rocks at Jaffa. It was blowing a heavy gale at the time, and none of the natives, excepting Girby, would offer the slightest assistance. Girby volunteered to swim to the ship and deliver a letter to the captain from the Governor. The ship was half a mile from shore, but he accomplished the work after a two hours' swim in a heavy sea. After doing this he dived under the ship and examined the hull, reporting her sound. He then swam ashore, taking a message from the captain. Towards morning, when the sea got higher, the captain signalled, and Suleiman again swam out, and brought back the captain's wife fastened on his back. The Silver Clasp was voted to Suleiman Girby."

EDITH BRILL.

"Edith Brill, age ten, saved Frank Hill, two and a half years old, at 6.45 p.m., 6th June, 1882, at the Graving Dock, Royal Dockyard, Woolwich. The child Hill was pulled into the water by a boy who had stumbled in some very foul and deep water. Little Edith Brill pluckily ran down the deep steps of the dock and went up to her neck in the water, and held the child up until John Hill helped her out. The boy Whorley who had fallen in was drowned."

(_To be continued._)

_A Strange Reunion._

BY T. G. ATKINSON.

In a poor little house in a wretched little town on a miserable day in November, two men sat by a small wood fire, warming their hands at the tiny blaze and silently watching the flicker of the flames. They were both young men; the elder was not more than twenty-six or seven and the younger was perhaps a year behind.

One of them was plain Charlie Osborne; the other rejoiced in the more aristocratic sobriquet of Eustace Margraf. But it mattered little by what different names they were called, since Fortune had forgotten to call on both alike. In short, they were "broke"--almost "stony broke." There had been a lock-out at the works at which they were both employed, and although they had neither of them joined the combination, they were none the less out of a job, and the fact of their former employment at the works that had locked them out told heavily against their chance of procuring other work in the town.

Neither was there much likelihood of their going back to the works, for the owners were rich men who could afford a long struggle, and the men were obstinate; and even if the strikers ever got back, Osborne and Margraf were in the awkward positions of being blacklegs. Thus it was that Fortune had forgotten these two young men who sat by their little fire, doggedly silent, too low-hearted even to curse Fortune.

"I shall go to London, Charlie," said the elder, suddenly, without looking up.

"What shall we do there?" growled the other. Osborne and Margraf had been more inseparable than brothers since the death of each of their parents ten years ago. Therefore it was that, when the latter announced his intention of going to London, the former instantly assumed his own share in the venture, and asked:--

"What shall _we_ do in London?"

"Don't know till I get there," answered Margraf, who, be it observed, did not encourage the first person plural. First person singular was a good deal more in his line. Yet he loved his chum, too, in his own way; but it was not the best way.

"What's the use of going, then?"

"What's the use of staying in this d---- show? What's the use of tramping round day and night after a job that never comes? What's the use of anything? I'm tired of mill work; it isn't what I was made for. I'm going to try my luck at something better. You needn't come."

But because Charlie Osborne was accustomed to be led by his comrade, he too gave out his intention to try his fortunes in London. This was not quite what Margraf wanted. He evidently had a scheme in contemplation in which he would prefer to be alone.

"I'll tell you what, Charlie, old fellow," he said after awhile. "I've got a plan I want you to help carry out. I want you and me to separate for three years--only three years--and try our luck alone. At the end of the three years we will meet again and see how each has got on, and divide takings."

"Not see each other at all?" asked Charlie, ruefully. His love for his chum was of the better kind; the second person singular species.

"No, not at all," answered the other, firmly, as though he were laying down a painful but apparent duty. "Not have any communication with each other except in case of extreme necessity. In that case we can put an advertisement in the _Daily Telegraph_. We will make a point of always seeing that paper."

After a longer demur than he was accustomed to raise to any scheme of Margraf's, however wild and chimerical, Charlie at last let his usual submission, and a vague suspicion that his companionship might be dragging Margraf back from attaining a position more worthy of that gentleman's talents, get the better of him. He made a hard fight for the privilege of exchanging letters during the three years, but Eustace remained obdurate. There was to be no communication except under the circumstances and in the manner named. Each was to take care to see the _Daily Telegraph_ every morning in case of such communications; and at the exact expiration of the three years, that is, on the 15th November, 188-, they were to meet at twelve o'clock noon at Charing Cross station.

So these two men divided up their little stock of belongings and smaller capital of money, took a third-class ticket each to London, went together to Charing Cross to verify the scene of their future reunion, and shook hands.

"We meet here in three years from to-day."

"We do, all being well. Good-bye, Charlie."

"Good-bye, old fellow."

Thus they parted, each on his separate quest for fortune.

On the evening of the 14th November, 188-, Eustace Margraf, Esq., Director and Chairman of the Anglican Debenture Corporation, Ltd., eke of the General Stock and Shareholders' Protective Union, Ltd., and various other like speculative companies, sat in the luxurious dining-room of his well-appointed residence in Lewisham Park. He had finished his sumptuous but solitary meal, and, reclining in a spacious armchair, sipped his rare old wine. It was three years all but a day since he had parted from Charlie Osborne on Charing Cross Station, and set out with eighteenpence in his pocket to seek his fortune. In that brief time he had rapidly risen to wealth and distinction. Three years ago he was a penniless mechanic, forsaken by Fortune and discontented with his life; to-day he was a rich man, smiled on and courted by Fortune and envied by all her minions, and still he was discontented with his life.

It was strange that he should cherish this discontent, for Eustace Margraf, mindful of the fact that he was made for something better than mill work, had matriculated and graduated at the World's University in the Department of Forgery and Theft. He had taken the highest diplomas in fraud; he had passed with honours the test of an accomplished swindler; and in the intricacies of embezzlement he was Senior Wrangler. Yet he was not content; some men are never satisfied.

This evening, as he sat sampling his '18 Oporto, with the daily paper at his elbow, he actually felt some amount of regret that he had entered the course for such distinctions--which, by the way, his modesty forbade him publishing to the world at large. Only a select few knew the extent of his accomplishments.

In the paper at his side there was a little paragraph which had given his memory a rather unpleasant jog. It was in the personal column, and ran as follows: "E. M.--Don't forget to-morrow, noon, C. C. Station.--Charlie." He wanted to see Charlie, for he still loved him after his old fashion; but the memories which the advertisement called up, and a doubt as to whether Charlie would appreciate his accomplishments, made him fidgety; and the recollection of all that must pass between now and noon to-morrow filled him with uneasiness. For to-night he was to stake everything in one tremendous venture. If he succeeded he would need to do nothing more all his life; if he failed----

To-night, at eight o'clock, the Continental mail train would start from Charing Cross Station with seventy-five thousand pounds worth of bullion for the Bank of France. If Eustace Margraf succeeded in his enterprise, it would reach Paris with the same weight of valueless shot in the strong iron boxes.

Everything had been nicely and minutely arranged. The shot had been carefully weighed to a quarter of a grain, and portioned into three equal lots to match the cases of bullion, which would be weighed on leaving London, again at Dover, once more at Calais, and finally on arrival at Paris. A key to fit the cases had been secretly made from a wax impression of the original, how obtained none but Margraf knew. This key he would hand to his confederates this evening at Charing Cross Station, after which he would go down by the seven o'clock train preceding the mail.

The stoker of the mail, an old railway hand, had been bribed, together with the guard in whose compartment the bullion would travel. It had been thought desirable to deal differently with the front guard and the driver; a specially prepared and powerful drug was to be given them in a pint of beer just before starting, which would take effect about an hour after administration and last till the sleepers should be aroused by brandy. During their slumber the stoker would pull up at convenient places on the line to allow the robbers to enter the guard's carriage and leave it with their booty, when they would make off to where Margraf had arranged to meet them; he would manage the rest. The front guard and the driver, meanwhile, would for their own sakes be glad enough to say nothing about their long slumber.

All these arrangements had been made with great nicety, and told over twice; and yet Margraf was uneasy and nervous as he thought of all the risk he ran. Twice he stretched out his hand for the bell-rope for telegram forms to stay the whole business; once he went so far as to ring the bell, but he altered his mind by the time the servant answered it, and ordered hot brandy instead. It was now six o'clock; in another hour he must hand over the duplicate key to his accomplices and board the train for Dover.

Every moment he grew more nervous, his hand became so shaky that brandy failed to steady it; his face grew pale and haggard; his nerves were strung to a painful tension; and all sorts of possibilities of failure in his scheme haunted him till he could have cried out from sheer nervousness.

"God!" he exclaimed, as he drained a glass of brandy and water and rose to go. "A life like this would kill me. Well, this shall be the last risk. If it turns out all right--as it must--I shall give this kind of business up. I shall have plenty then, and old Charlie will go off and live quietly and comfortably."

* * * * *

The rear guard of the seven o'clock Continental finished his last cup of tea, put on his thick winter coat, kissed his wife and baby girl, and took up his lantern preparatory to joining his train. He reached the station as the great engine was being coupled and gave the driver a cheery salute, which that official acknowledged with a surly growl.

"Something put Jimmy out to-night," he laughed to the fireman, a young, inexperienced fellow, making his trial trip, and passed on to make his inspection of things in general before starting.

At the last moment a richly-dressed gentleman, wearing a long fur coat, and carrying a large travelling rug, entered a first-class smoking compartment. This gentleman, whom numerous people on the platform recognised as he passed and saluted respectfully, was Eustace Margraf, Esq. The carriage he got into was an empty one, and, lying full length on the seat, covered with his rug, he lit a cigar and composed himself to make the best of a long and tiresome railway journey. The guard blew his whistle, the great engine reproduced it in a loud, deep tone, and the train steamed slowly out of the station, twenty minutes late in starting.

Left to his own reflections, which were none of the liveliest, and lulled by the motion of the train, our traveller soon fell into a fitful sleep, wherein he was haunted by dreams that wrought upon his brain until he was almost as nervous as he had been in his own room some hours before.

He awoke suddenly, with a vague sense that the train was travelling at a most unusual and unaccountable speed: and, as he leapt to his feet in a half-dazed fright, they shot through Tunbridge--a place at which they were timed to make a ten minutes' stop--and he was conscious of seeing, as in a flash, a crowd of frightened and awe-struck faces looking at the train from the platform. He sank back on the cushioned seat, seized with a nameless terror. Time and space seemed to his overwrought nerves to be filled with tokens of some approaching calamity which he was powerless to prevent; the terrific speed and violent swaying of the train, the shrill howl of the ceaseless whistle, the terrible darkness and silence of everything outside his immediate surroundings, and the recollection of that crowd of terrified faces, all seemed to thrill him with a sense of impending horror, and the wretched man sat terror-stricken on his seat, a mere mass of highly-strung and delicate nerves.

Suddenly, as he looked into the black night, a face passed the window, as of someone walking along the footboard to the engine; a stern-set face, as of one going to certain danger and needing all the pluck he possessed to carry him through: and at the apparition the traveller fairly shrieked aloud; but the face passed on and was gone.

In another moment there was a sudden shout--a terrific crash--a wild chaos of sight and sound--and our traveller knew no more.

When next he found his senses, he was lying among cushions and rugs in the waiting-room at Tunbridge Wells Station. He awoke with a faint shiver, and tried to raise himself, but found to his astonishment that he could not so much as lift a finger. As a matter of fact, he was among those whom the busy surgeons had given up as a desperate case; and, after doing all in their power to ease him, abandoned in favour of more hopeful subjects; but this he did not know.

Several of the passengers whose injuries were only very slight were discussing the accident in an animated manner, and, as usual in such cases, many wild and fanciful conjectures were passed about as truth. At last one said:--

"Does anyone know the rights of the matter?"

"Yes, I do," volunteered a young man with an arm in a sling; and Margraf lay silently listening, unable to move or speak.

"Well, what is it?"

"Just after we passed Grove Park, the fireman was on the front of the engine oiling, when he felt the locomotive increasing in speed till it became so appalling that he grew terrified and could not get back. He is a young fellow, and this is his trial trip. At length he managed to crawl back to the cab, where he found the driver lying, as he supposed, dead. This so increased his terror that he was only able to open the whistle and pull the cord communicating with the rear guard, and then fell in a swoon across the tender.