A Terrible Coward | Page 5

said Penelly sharply.
"Then it must be because he thrashed you for behaving ill to poor old
Tom Genna?"
"He thrash me!" cried Penelly contemptuously. "I should like to see
him do it."
"Here's your chance, then," said the master maliciously. "He's
swimming straight for the boat."
Mark Penelly's face grew a shade more sallow, but he said nothing,
only knelt down by a pile of loose net, and watched the young man,
whom he looked upon as his rival, till Harry, swimming gracefully and
well, came right up and answered the hail of the fishermen with a
cheery shout.
"Come aboard, Mas'r Harry; we're going to have the sweeps out soon,
and we'll take you in."
"No, thank you," was the reply. "I am going round you, and then back."
Mark Penelly had gone over to the other side of the lugger while the
conversation was going on, and he did not face the man he looked upon
as his rival; while Harry, unnoticed by the busy fishers as he swam
round, went on, touching the sides of the lugger as he lightly swam, but
only the next moment to find himself entangled in a quantity of the thin
mackerel net, which seemed somehow to descend upon him like a

cloud, and before he could realise the fact he was under water,
hopelessly fettered by the net, and feeling that if he could not extricate
himself directly he should be a dead man.
CHAPTER TWO.
ZEKLE MAKES HAY.
At first sight nothing seems more frail than a herring or mackerel net,
one of those slight pieces of mesh-work that, in a continuation of
lengths perhaps half-a-mile long, is let down into the sea to float with
the tide, ready for the shoals of fish that dart against it as it forms a
filmy wall across their way. The wonder always is that it does not break
with even a few pounds of fish therein, but it rarely does, for
co-operation is power, and it is in the multiplicity of crossing threads
that the strength consists.
Harry Paul, as he struggled in the water, was like a fly in the web of a
spider, for every effort seemed only to increase the tangle. He could not
break that which yielded on every side, but with fresh lengths coming
over the lugger's side to tangle him the more. Even if he had had an
open sharp knife in his hand he could hardly have cut himself free, and
in the horror of those brief moments he found that his struggles were
sending him deeper and deeper, and that unconsciously he had wound
himself still farther in the net, till his arms and legs were pinioned in
the cold, slimy bonds, which clung to and wrapped round him more and
more.
A plunge deep down into the sea is confusing at the best of times. The
water thunders in the ears, and a feeling of helplessness and awe
sometimes comes over the best of swimmers. In this case, then, tangled
and helpless as he was, Harry Paul could only think for a few moments
of the time when he swam into the sea-cave at Pen Point at high tide,
and felt the long strands of the bladder wrack curl and twist round his
limbs like the tentacles of some sea-monster; and he realised once more
the chilling sense of helpless horror that seemed to numb his faculties.
He made an effort again and again, but each time it was weaker, and at

last, with the noise of many waters in his ears, and a bewildering rush
of memories through his brain, all seemed to be growing very dark
around him, and then he knew no more.
On board the lugger the fishermen were busily running the net from
one compartment of the vessel into the other, still shaking the fish out
as they went on, for a sudden squall at the fishing-ground had
compelled them to haul in their nets hastily and run for home. The
slimy net grew into a large brown heap on one side, and the little hill of
brilliantly-tinted mackerel bigger on the other, and in the evening light
it seemed as if the wondrous colours with which the water shone in
ripples far and near had been caught and dyed upon the sides of the
fish.
Mark Penelly came over from the other side of the lugger, where he
seemed to have been busy for a moment or two, while the men were
bending over their work, and seated himself upon the low bulwark
close to the master.
"Has he got round?" said the latter, looking up for a moment.
"Whom do you mean?" said Penelly, who was rather pale.
"Young Mas'r Harry. Didn't you see him?"
"See him?--no.