Читать книгу Waif of the River - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 4

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Night on the river with mist of wind-driven rain and two dim shapes up to their knees in slimy ooze, crouching above their prey: this dreadful thing that rolled sluggish on the lapping tide of Old Father Thames, whose broad bosom has borne many such piteous burdens out and away from misery and shame of life to a comfort and joy everlasting—let us hope.

"A woman, eh, Si?"

"Ay, a woman."

"Ain't dead yet, is she?"

"No, but soon, Job, soon—give 'er time."

"Well, sooner the better; us gets more for dead uns than live uns. So she's agoin' to be a dead un when us hauls 'er ashore. We can't wait all night in this cursed rain, so in with 'er, Si; souse 'er, boot 'er under, or lemme——"

"No, Job, no! Kind natur' must do it for us, not you or me! For wot natur' does nobody can't 'old ag'in' us, and the law can't touch us——"

"But, blast it, Si, oo's to know?"

"Me conscience, Job, for one thing, and you for another! And me conscience is a oncommon sensitive article, aye, as spry and active as Jarsper Shrig, curse 'im! So be patient, Job, and let natur'—ah, wot's yonder?"

"Eh—oo—where?"

"I—I dunno; footsteps mebbe! Somewheres be'ind us i' the perishin' dark—the wharf yonder!"

"Gammon! Oo'd be yerabouts on sich a night 'cept the likes o' we? 'Twas trick o' the wind—or your cursed conscience! Wot of our 'found-drowned' now? Ain't she a goner yet?"

"No, Job, no. Y'see, 'er 'ead's got jammed above tide some'ow, and she's face up. But tide's arisin' pretty fast. So ha' patience."

"Not me! Shove 'er under, I tell ye! If you won't, I will. So make way and I'll tread 'er down 'till——"

Something whizzed viciously from the darkness behind them, and, smitten by a hail of unseen, painful blows, they screamed, cursed, floundered and scuttered away, whimpering like the vicious though craven animals they were.

Then their invisible assailant, dropping heavy stick, stooped to grope in that horror of darkness and slime until he felt—hair, long, matted tresses that twined and clung about his fingers, his wrists, his arms, so that for a sickening moment they seemed all over and about him, drawing his shuddering body down and down to the mud, the water and this awful thing that lay almost buried in the sucking ooze.... Ensued a period of fierce and desperate effort, brawn and muscle against swirling tide-race and hungry slime. Struggling to his feet at last, he turned and bore his awful burden up and away. Across muddy foreshore he stumbled, up crumbling steps, along a narrow causeway that his feet trod with the assurance of familiarity, and so to a dark court and thence to a spacious inn-yard lit by a beaming lantern and glow of red-curtained windows. And now this yard echoed to his loud though breathless hail:

"Waterman, ahoy! Ho, Tom ... George ... stand by to ... bear a hand here."

At this summons a door was flung wide, letting forth a gush of warmth and rosy light, the while two voices bellowed together and in hearty welcome:

"Oho, Master Robin, whereaway? Bring to, sir, and we'll come alongside."

"And at the double, sir!"

"Here, Bo'sun," panted this tall, young Robin, staggering into the light of this open doorway; "and you, Sergeant. Lend a hand, for ... she's devilish heavy ... and I'm ... pretty well foundered."

"Eh, a woman, sir? From the river? Another on 'em? Is she dead?"

"God knows, Tom. Take her feet—so! George, go warn Aunt Rosamond. Now, Tom, heave ahead."

So into the comfort of this ancient hostelry known as the Jolly Young Waterman,^[1] that had been made a haven for all distressed folk, these two old friends bore this loathsome, mud-spattered waif cast up by Old Father Thames, this thing of destiny that was to cause so much of anguish and joy and to alter the lives of so many.

[1]	See The Crooked Furrow and The Happy Harvest.