A Bid for Fortune - Guy Boothby (ready player one ebook TXT) 📗

The morning after my third return to Bournemouth I was up by daybreak, had had my breakfast, and was ready to set off on a cruise across the bay, before the sun was a hand’s breath above the horizon. It was as perfect a morning as any man could wish to see. A faint breeze just blurred the surface of the water, tiny waves danced in the sunshine, and my barkie nodded to them as if she were anxious to be off. The town ashore lay very quiet and peaceful, and so still was the air that the cries of a few white gulls could be heard quite distinctly, though they were half a mile or more away. Having hove anchor, we tacked slowly across the bay, passed the pier-head, and steered for Old Harry Rock and Swanage Bay. My crew was for’ard, and I had possession of the tiller.

As we went about between Canford Cliffs and Alum Chine, something moving in the water ahead of me attracted my attention. We were too far off to make out exactly what it might be, and it was not until five minutes later, when we were close abreast of it, that I discovered it to be a bather. The foolish fellow had ventured further out than was prudent, had struck a strong current, and was now being washed swiftly out to sea. But for the splashing he made to show his whereabouts, I should in all probability not have seen him, and in that case his fate would have been sealed. As it was, when we came up with him he was quite exhausted.

Heaving my craft to, I leapt into the dinghy, and pulled towards him, but before I could reach the spot he had sunk. At first I thought he was gone for good and all, but in a few seconds he rose again. Then, grabbing him by the hair, I passed an arm under each of his, and dragged him unconscious into the boat. In less than three minutes we were alongside the yacht again, and with my crew’s assistance I got him aboard. Fortunately a day or two before I had had the forethought to purchase some brandy for use in case of need, and my Thursday Island experiences having taught me exactly what was best to be done under such circumstances, it was not long before I had brought him back to consciousness.

In appearance he was a handsome young fellow, well set up, and possibly nineteen or twenty years of age. When I had given him a stiff nobbler of brandy to stop the chattering of his teeth, I asked him how he came to be so far from shore.

“I am considered a very good swimmer,” he replied, “and often come out as far as this, but today I think I must have got into a strong outward current, and certainly but for your providential assistance I should never have reached home alive.”

“You have had a very narrow escape,” I answered, “but thank goodness you’re none the worse for it. Now, what’s the best thing to be done? Turn back, I suppose, and set you ashore.”

“But what a lot of trouble I’m putting you to.”

“Nonsense! I’ve nothing to do, and I count myself very fortunate in having been able to render you this small assistance. The breeze is freshening, and it won’t take us any time to get back. Where do you live?”

“To the left there! That house standing back upon the cliff. Really I don’t know how to express my gratitude.”

“Just keep that till I ask you for it; and now, as we’ve got a twenty minutes’ sail before us, the best thing for you to do would be to slip into a spare suit of my things. They’ll keep you warm, and you can return them to my hotel when you get ashore.”

I sang out to the boy to come aft and take the tiller, while I escorted my guest below into the little box of a cabin, and gave him a rig out. Considering I am six feet two, and he was only five feet eight, the things were a trifle large for him; but when he was dressed I couldn’t help thinking what a handsome, well-built, aristocratic-looking young fellow he was. The work of fitting him out accomplished, we returned to the deck. The breeze was freshening, and the little hooker was ploughing her way through it, nose down, as if she knew that under the circumstances her best was expected of her.

“Are you a stranger in Bournemouth?” my companion asked as I took the tiller again.

“Almost,” I answered. “I’ve only been in England three weeks. I’m home from Australia.”

“Australia! Really! Oh, I should so much like to go out there.”

His voice was very soft and low, more like a girl’s than a boy’s, and I noticed that he had none of the mannerisms of a man⁠—at least, not of one who has seen much of the world.

“Yes, Australia’s as good a place as any other for the man who goes out there to work,” I said, “But somehow you don’t look to me like a chap that is used to what is called roughing it. Pardon my bluntness.”

“Well, you see, I’ve never had much chance. My father is considered by many a very peculiar man. He has strange ideas about me, and so you see I’ve never been allowed to mix with other people. But I’m stronger than you’d think, and I shall be twenty in October next.”

I wasn’t very far out in his age then.

“And now, if you don’t mind telling me, what is your name?”

“I suppose there can be no harm in letting you know it. I was told if ever I met anyone and they asked me, not to tell them. But since you saved my life it would be ungrateful not to let you know. I am the Marquis of Beckenham.”

“Is that so? Then your father