In Friendships Guise | Page 6

twenty, and the striking
beauty of her face was due to those charms of expression and feature
which are indefinable. A crimson Tam-o'-Shanter was perched jauntily
on her golden hair, and a blue Zouave jacket, fitting loosely over her
blouse, gave full play to the grace and skill with which she handled the
paddle.
Jack was indifferent to women, and wont to boast that none could
enslave him, but the sight of this fair young English maiden, if it did
not weaken the citadel of his heart, at least made that organ beat a trifle
faster. He shot one look of bold admiration, then turned and bent to the
oars.
"I don't know when I have seen so lovely a face," he thought. "I wonder
who she is."
The steamer glided by, and the next moment Jack was nearly opposite
to the canoe. What happened then was swift and unexpected. Above the
splash of the revolving paddles he heard hoarse shouts and warning
cries. He saw green waves approaching, flung up in the wake of the
passing vessel. As he dropped the oars and leapt anxiously to his feet
the frail canoe, unfitted to encounter such a peril, was clutched and
lifted broadside by the foaming swell. Over it went instantly, and there
was a flash of red and blue as the girl was flung headfirst into the river.
As quickly Jack clasped his hands and dived from his boat. He came to
the top and swam forward with desperate strokes. He saw the upturned
canoe, the floating paddle, the half-submerged Tam-o'-Shanter. Then a
mass of dripping golden hair cleft the surface, only to sink at once.

But Jack had marked the spot, and, taking a full breath, he dived. To
the onlookers the interval seemed painfully long, and a hundred
cheering voices rent the air as the young artist rose to view, keeping
himself afloat with one arm, while the other supported the girl. She was
conscious, but badly scared and disposed to struggle.
"Be quite still," Jack said, sharply. "You are in no danger--I will save
you if you trust me."
The girl obeyed, looking into Jack's eyes with a calmer expression. The
steamer had stopped, and half a dozen row-boats were approaching
from different directions. A grizzled waterman and his companion
picked up the two and pulled them across to Strand-on-the-Green.
Others followed towing Jack's boat and the canoe, and the big steamer
proceeded on her way to Kew Pier.
The Black Bull, close by the railway bridge, received the drenched
couple, and the watermen were delighted by the gift of a sovereign. A
motherly woman took the half-dazed girl upstairs, and Jack was led
into the oak-panelled parlor of the old inn by the landlord, who
promptly poured him out a little brandy, and then insisted on his having
a change of clothing.
"Thank you; I fear I must accept your offer," said Jack. "But I hope you
will attend to the young lady first. Your wife seemed to know her."
"Quite well, sir," was the reply. "Bless you, we all know Miss Madge
Foster hereabouts. She lives yonder at the lower end of the Green--"
"Then she had better be taken home."
"I think this is the best place for her at present, sir. Her father is in town,
and there is only an old servant."
"You are quite right," said Jack. "I suppose there is a doctor near by."
"There is, sir, and I will send for him at once," the landlord promised.
"If you will kindly step this way--"

At that moment there was a stir among the curious idlers who filled the
entrance passage of the inn. An authoritative voice opened a way
between them, and a man pushed through to the parlor. His face
changed color at the sight of Jack, who greeted him with a cry of
astonishment.

CHAPTER III.
AN OLD FRIEND
There was gladness as well as surprise in Jack's hearty exclamation, for
the man who stood before him in the parlor of the Black Bull was his
old friend Victor Nevill, little altered in five years, except for a heavier
mustache that improved his dark and handsome face. To judge from
appearances, he had not run through with all his money. He was
daintily booted and gloved, and wore morning tweeds of perfect cut; a
sprig of violets was thrust in his button-hole. The two had not met since
they parted in Paris on that memorable night, nor had they known of
each other's whereabouts.
"Nevill, old chap!" cried Jack, holding out a hand.
Nevill clasped it warmly; his momentary confusion had vanished.
"My dear Clare--" he began.
"Not that name," Jack interrupted, laughingly. "I'm called Vernon on
this side of the Channel."
"What, John Vernon, the rising