The action that had extorted the admiration of the aged seaman was a rope that had been thrown over the steamboat’s bulwarks.  The now weary swimmer gratefully accepted the boon.  It saved his life.

“Will you pay the difference, and come on board, young Sir?” asked the Captain of the packet, facetiously.

“Were it not that I am very poor,” gasped out the tired, and shivering lad, “I should not have undertaken this gigantic but necessary task.”

He held on bravely, and in good time the coast of France was sighted, neared, and reached.  Although as cold as stone, owing to the exposure to the waves, the swimmer was now refreshed.  He threw away the rope, and once more struck out.

“Adieu!” he cried to the crew of the steamboat.  “I can finish the rest of the distance without assistance.”

He was as good as his word.  Soon he was standing on French ground buying a post-card for India.

“And why have you come in this strange fashion?” asked an aged missionary of British extraction.

The weary lad replied in a faint voice, “Because at Calais a post-card to India costs a penny, at Dover twopence!  Yet both posts surely are conveyed by the same mail.  By swimming from Dover to Calais I have saved a penny!” And as he recorded this undoubted fact he fainted.

* * * * *

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