FullReads

As he caught sight of me, however, floundering on my back, and scarcely able to keep my head up for the weight of my clothes, his face became alarmed. “Hold up a second!” he shouted. Half a dozen strong strokes brought him to my side, and before I could explain or decline, he had gripped me by the two shoulders and was punting me ignominiously towards the shore.

It was a painful situation for me; the more so that I was quite done up and scarcely able to stagger out of the water into the arms of my affrighted relatives.

“Lay him on his back and work his arms up and down till you get all the water out of him, and then put him between hot blankets,” cried my preserver, “and he’ll be all serene. They ought to make a shallow place somewhere for these kids to bathe, where they won’t get out of their depths. Bless you, ma’am,” added he, in reply to my mother’s thanks, “it’s not worth talking of. It all comes in a day’s work, and you’re very welcome.”

I was rather glad to leave the seaside after that; and whenever in the course of my future readings I came upon any further reference to emergency number one, I discreetly passed it over.

But hope springs eternal in the human breast, and the resources of heroism were by no means exhausted.

The drowning business had missed fire. I would go into the runaway- horse line, and try how that would stand me for glory.

So after a careful study of the theory of the art from my books, I took to haunting Rotten Row in my leisure hours with a view to business. I must confess that it is far easier to stop a runaway horse on paper than on a gravel drive. I speculated, as one or two specially reckless riders dashed past me, on what the chance would be of making a spring at the bridle of a horse going half as fast again as theirs, and bringing him gracefully on to his knees. I didn’t like the idea. And yet had not a fellow done it in one of Kingsley’s novels, and another in one of Lever’s?

At last I screwed myself up to it. I had worked the thing out carefully, and arranged my spring and everything. But I was unlucky again when the time came.

I remember the occasion well–painfully well. It was a bright May afternoon. I had given the carriages up as hopeless–they drove far too soberly–and was taking a forlorn glance up and down the ride at the equestrians, when I perceived a youth approach on a very dashing animal, which, if it was not bolting, was sailing remarkably close to the wind in that direction. The ride was pretty clear, and the few seconds I had in which to make up my mind were enough for me. I heard some one say close beside me, “He’ll be chucked!”

Instantly I dived under the rail and dashed out into the road. There was a shout and a yell, and the young gentleman had to pull his mare up on her haunches to avoid riding me down. Before I could act under these circumstances a mounted policeman dashed up, and collaring me by the coat, swung me along beside him a yard or two, and then, with a box on the ears, pitched me back in among the crowd.

I should have liked to explain, but he did not give me time.

“Young fool!” said one of the crowd; “you might have killed him. Do you know who that was?”

“Who?” I gasped, for I was out of breath. “That young man who–“

“Yes–that young man’s the Prince of Wales.”

It’s twenty-six years ago since it happened, and probably the King has forgotten the adventure. I haven’t. I retired from the runaway-horse business that very afternoon.