who had thrown off his coat, dived into the harbour and, rising rapidly
to the surface, caught the fast-choking Mr. Turnbull by the collar.

"Keep still," he cried, sharply, as the farmer tried to clutch him; "keep
still or I'll let you go."

"Help!" choked the farmer, gazing up at the little knot of people which
had collected on the quay.

A stout fisherman who had not run for thirty years came along the edge of
the quay at a shambling trot, with a coil of rope over his arm. John
Blundell saw him and, mindful of the farmer's warning about kissing of
fingers, etc., raised his disengaged arm and took that frenzied gentleman
below the surface again. By the time they came up he was very glad for
his own sake to catch the line skilfully thrown by the old fisherman and
be drawn gently to the side.

"I'll tow you to the steps," said the fisherman; "don't let go o' the
line."

Mr. Turnbull saw to that; he wound the rope round his wrist and began to
regain his presence of mind as they were drawn steadily toward the steps.
Willing hands drew them out of the water and helped them up on to the
quay, where Mr. Turnbull, sitting in his own puddle, coughed up salt
water and glared ferociously at the inanimate form of Mr. Blundell.
Sergeant Daly and another man were rendering what they piously believed
to be first aid to the apparently drowned, while the stout fisherman,
with both hands to his mouth, was yelling in heart-rending accents for a
barrel.