"Am I?" Macdonald glanced with mild interest at the head that had been
until that moment submerged. "Shows how absent-minded a man gets. I was
thinking about how he tried to drown me, I expect."
They dragged the miner aboard.
"Go ahead. I'll swim down," Macdonald ordered.
"Better come aboard," advised the mate.
"No. I'm all right."
The Scotchman pushed himself back from the boat and fell into an easy
stroke. Nevertheless, there was power in it, for he reached the Hannah
before the rescued miner had been helped to the deck.
A dozen passengers, crowded on the lower deck, pushed forward eagerly
to see. Among them was Selfridge, his shirt and collar torn loose at
the neck and his immaculate checked suit dusty and disheveled. He was
wearing a pair of up-to-date Oxford tans.
The Scotch-Canadian shook himself like a Newfoundland dog. He looked
around with sardonic amusement, a grin on his swollen and disfigured
face.
"Quite a pleasant welcome home," he said ironically, his cold eyes fixed
on a face that looked as if it might have been kicked by a healthy mule.
"Eh, Trelawney?"
The Cornishman glared at him, and turned away with a low, savage oath.
"Are you hurt, Mr.
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