"They are real living boys, with their virtues and faults. The Cornish fishermen are drawn from life, they are racy of the soil, salt with the sea-water, and they stand out from the pages in their jerseys and sea-boots all sprinkled with silvery pilchard scales."--Spectator.
but that's enough for me. Here's a human bein' goin' to be as good as murdered, and I won't be one o' them as stands by and sees it done."
"What nonsense, Josh!" cried Will. "This is regular diving apparatus. That's an air-pump; and the man has air pumped down into his helmet through that india-rubber pipe."
"Garlong; don't tell me, boy," cried Josh indignantly. "Into his helmet indeed! Why, you can see all the water bubbling up round him. That's what it is--pumped away. I tell 'ee I'm off. I won't stop and see the gashly work going on."
Just then there was a cry from one of the men by the gangway, for the life-line was jerked.
"More air!" he shouted; and the men spun the wheel round faster; but the line jerked again.
"There's something wrong!" shouted one of the others. "Here, lay hold there--quick! Keep on there with that handle, stupids! Do you want the man to choke? Pump, I tell you. Now, then, haul!"
"There, I told you so, Will," cried Josh, whose ruddy-brown fa
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