jagged rocks.

No man could swim against the furious, racing torrent which was now passing between them. No one could get out of such a current when once in. It was horrible to look at, for the helpless swimmer seemed as if he would be dashed against the crags and then float, stunned, wounded, and helpless, out to sea.

That seemed to be Mark Penelly’s fate; but no—as he neared the gate in the Shangles he could be seen to turn over upon his back, keeping his head well out of the water, paddling with his hands, and feet foremost, showing from time to time amongst the foam, literally shooting like a canoe right between the rocks, to float directly after in smooth water, and calmly swim round towards the shore.

The feat had been seen hundreds of times; every swimmer who had attained manhood could do it; and at times it was hard work to keep back the venturesome boys. But no matter when it was done there was always a cheer for the brave young fellow who took the leap, and who was now seen to alter his mind, and make for a fishing lugger a quarter of a mile away—one which was just coming in from the fishing-ground miles away.

“Huh, Harry Paul,” said one of a group of dark, weather-tanned fishermen, to a fair-haired, clear-skinned young fellow of two or three and twenty; who had just thrown his straw-hat upon the rocks, showing his crisp, short, yellowish hair, and broad, white forehead. “Going to have a swim?”

“Yes,” said the young man quietly, as he proceeded to divest himself of his neckerchief and let loose his thick white throat; “nice night for it.”

“Where are you going, lad?” said another, for somehow they took a great interest in his proceedings.

“Oh, I thought of swimming out to James’s boat and back, or else coming back in her. She seems to have plenty of fish.”

“Ay, lad, plenty,” said another; “they’ve been signalling that they’re ’most full. But when are you going to take the jump, lad, eh?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry quietly, as he went on preparing for his bathe; “perhaps never.”

“I wonder at you, Master Harry,” said another, a grey-headed old fisherman. “Here’s you, son of the biggest owner here in Carn Du, a young chap as can swim like a seal, and yet never had the pluck to take the big leap.”

“Yes,” said the first speaker, “a dive as there’s dozens of boys o’ fifteen and sixteen ready to do if they’d let ’em.”

“Ay,” said the grey-haired old fellow, “that they would. Why, I done it when I was fourteen and a half.”

“Mark. Penelly says as you’re the biggest coward as ever stepped,” said another maliciously.

“Oh! never you mind what Mark Penelly says, Master Harry,” said the grey-haired man. “He’s jealous; that’s about what he is. He’s ’feared you’ll go and do the dive better than him. And it’s my opinion, seeing what a swimmer you are, as you would beat him all to fits.”

“So I think,” said another, who had not yet spoken; and he winked at his companions as he thrust his hands a little farther down into his capacious pockets.

“Go on, and do it to-night, Master Harry,” said the old fellow. “Don’t you be bet. The tide’s just right for it, and if I was you I’d just show Mark Penelly as he knows nothing about it.”

The young man went on calmly divesting himself of his outer clothing while this talk went on, and though there was a slight flush on his cheeks he did not speak a word.

“He’ll do it,” said the man with his hands in his pockets. “He’ll do it; you see if he don’t. Mas’r Harry’s made up his mind. He’s just made up his mind, he have, and he’s going to do it.”

“I’ll lay a ounce o’ baccy he does it better than Mark Penelly. I wish he was here to see him do it.”

“Ay, to be sure,” said the old grey-haired man. “He’s going to do it—now aren’t you, Mas’r Harry? I feel kinder quite glad of it, lad, for I taught you to swim.”

“To be sure you did, Tom Genna,” said the young man, smiling, “and I hope I haven’t disgraced my master.”

“Not you, lad; there is not a finer swimmer nowhere,” said the old man enthusiastically; “and I’m glad you’ve made up your mind at last to take the dive.”

“I’ve not made up my mind,” said the young man coolly.

“Not made up your mind!” cried several.

“No,” replied the bather.

“Why, you said just now as you would do it!” cried the man with his hands in his pockets.

“Ay, so he did,” was chorused.

“Not I,” said Harry quietly; “and if you will all clear off, and let me have my swim in peace, I shall be much obliged.”

“Why, you are a coward, then,” said the man with his hands in his pockets, and to show his disgust he began to sprinkle the boulders about with tobacco-juice.

“I suppose I am,” said Harry Paul, smiling. “I can’t help it. I suppose it is my nature.”

“Bah!” growled the grey-haired man, who, as one of the oldest fishermen, was looked up to as an authority. “You aren’t a coward, Master Harry; it’s only ’cause you want to make a plucky effort, don’t you? Just you make up your mind to do it, and you’d do it like a shot.”

“I daresay I could,” replied the young man; “but why should I?”

“Why should you!” sneered the man with his hands in his pockets; “why, ’cause every one does.”

“Because everyone goes and risks his life just for the sake of gratifying his vanity,” replied Harry Paul, “I don’t see why I should go and do the same.”

“Ah, now you’re beginning to talk fine,” growled the old fisherman, “and a-shoving your book-larning at us. Look here, young ’un; a lad as can’t swim ain’t—’cordin’ to my ideas—hardly worth the snuff of a candle.”

“I don’t go so far as you do, Tom,” said the young man, smiling; “but I do hold that every young fellow should be able to swim well, and so I learned.”

“Yes, but you can’t do the dive,” said the man with his hands in his pockets mockingly.

“Oh, he’s going to do it,” said the old fisherman. “The water’s just right, Master Harry. You go. Take my advice: you go. Just wait till the wave’s coming well up, then fall into her, and out you come, and the current’ll carry you out through the Shangles.”

“And what the better shall I be if I do?” said the young man warmly.

“What the better, my lad!” said the old fellow, looking aghast. “Why, you’ll ha’ made quite a man o’ yourself.”

“But I shall have done no good whatever.”

“Oh, yes, you would; oh, yes, you would,” said the party, sagely shaking their heads and looking at one another.

“I don’t see it,” said Harry Paul. “If it was to do any one good, or to be of any benefit, perhaps I might try it; but I cannot see the common-sense of risking my life just because you people have made it a custom to jump off Carn Du.”

As he spoke he ran down over the boulders, and plunged off a rock into the clear sea, his white figure being traceable against the olive brown sea-wrack waving far below, as he swam for some distance below the surface, and then rose, shook the water from his eyes, and struck out for the lugger lying becalmed in the offing.

The party of fishermen on shore stood growling together, and making unpleasant remarks about Harry Paul, whom they declared to be a terrible coward—all but old Tom Genna, who angrily took his part.

“He’s not a bad ’un at heart, and I believe he’s no coward,” growled the old fellow.

“Then why don’t he show as he ar’n’t?” said the man with his hands in his pockets, places they never seemed to leave.

“Ah, that’s what no one can’t say!” growled old Tom, and sooner than hear his favourite swimming pupil condemned, he walked away, muttering that, “he’d give a half-crown