Tommy swore vigorously.  “That’s the kind of river-hog who ought to be choked,” he said.  “If I—­”

He was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from Joyce.  She had jumped up laughing when the spray swept over her, and now, holding on to the rigging, she was pointing excitedly to something just ahead of us.

“Quick, Tommy!” she said.  “There’s a man in the water—­drowning.  They’ve swamped his boat.”

In a flash Tommy had leaped to the side.  “Keep her going,” he shouted to me.  “We’re heading straight for him.”  Then scrambing aft he grabbed hold of the tow rope and swiftly hauled the dinghy alongside.

“I’ll pick him up, Tommy,” I said quietly.  “You look after the boat:  you know her better than I do.”

He nodded, and calling to Joyce to take over the tiller sprang up on to the deck ready to lower the sails.  I cast off the painter, all but one turn, and handing the end to Joyce, told her to let it go as soon as I shouted.  Then, pulling the dinghy right up against the side of the boat, I waited my chance and dropped down into her.

I was just getting out the sculls, when a sudden shout from Tommy of “There he is!” made me look hurriedly round.  About twenty yards away a man was splashing feebly in the water, making vain efforts to reach an oar that was floating close beside him.

“Let her go, Joyce!” I yelled, and the next moment I was tugging furiously across the intervening space with the loose tow rope trailing behind me.

I was only just in time.  Almost exactly as I reached the man he suddenly gave up struggling, and with a faint gurgling sort of cry disappeared beneath the water.  I leaned out of the boat, and plunging my arm in up to the shoulder, clutched him by the collar.

“No, you don’t, Bertie,” I said cheerfully.  “Not this journey.”

It’s a ticklish business dragging a half-drowned man into a dinghy without upsetting it, but by getting him down aft, I at last managed to hoist him up over the gunwale.  He came in like some great wet fish, and I flopped him down in the stern sheets.  Then with a deep breath I sat down myself.  I was feeling a bit pumped.

For a moment or two my “catch” lay where he was, blowing, gasping, grunting, and spitting out mouthfuls of dirty water.  He was a little weazened man of middle age, with a short grizzled beard.  Except for a pair of fairly new sea-boots, he was dressed in old nondescript clothes which could not have taken much harm even from the Thames mud.  Indeed, on the whole, I should think their recent immersion had done them good.

“Well,” I said encouragingly, “how do you feel?”

With a big effort he raised himself on his elbow.  “Right enough, guv’nor,” he gasped, “right enough.”  Then, sinking back again, he added feebly:  “If you see them oars o’ mine, you might pick ’em up.”

There was a practical touch about this that rather appealed to me.  I sat up, and, looking round, discovered the Betty about forty yards away.  Tommy had got the sails down and set the engine going, and he was already turning her round to come back and pick us up.  I waved my hand to him—­a greeting which he returned with a triumphant hail.