CHAPTER LXVIII.

THE ISLAND GHOST.—­NARROW ESCAPE OF MR. BROWN.

I would sooner have faced the most savage gang of bushrangers in Australia than that fearful sound, yet I was so anxious to save my friend that, frightened as I really was, I did not run, or even make a motion to that effect.  The drowning man, with face upturned, and eyes that watched my every motion, at length heard the dull, heavy blows of the pick, and he seemed to comprehend that they were intended as warnings of his end.  He no longer struggled like a brave man wrestling with death, but seemed to grow more calm as the slime and mud closed around him, and his body settled.

“How can I save you?” I asked; “I cannot think that we are to part so suddenly; I would give all my wealth for a rope six feet long.”

“If you had one of the horses’ bridles here,” suggested Mr. Brown, but before I could start to get one, he continued, “don’t leave me, for I should be smothered before you could get back; see, the water is up even with my chin.”

I had noticed the same thing before he alluded to it, and I dreaded to remain and hear his last struggles for breath.

“I have a mother somewhere on the coast of England; the last that I heard of her she was at Falmouth.  Will you write and collect what money I have saved, and send it to her?  I know that you will, and a dying man thanks you.”

While the poor fellow was speaking, a thought entered my head that he might yet be saved, but there was no time to lose if I intended to put into operation my plan for his relief.  I hastily tore off my belt which I wore around my waist, and which contained my revolver and knife, and then stripped off my trousers, (the ladies will please not to blush—­there was no habitation within three miles of us,) made of stout woollen cloth, which I had bought in Melbourne for the purpose of riding through the brush on horseback.

In an instant my friend appeared to comprehend my plan; he raised his right hand from the mud and reached towards me as far as possible, and then, with a struggle to keep his head above the water, murmured—­“Quick, for God’s sake, quick!”

“Keep up your courage,” I shouted, throwing one leg of the garment towards him, while I retained the other.

To my great joy I saw that he grasped it in his right hand, and exerted all his strength to extricate himself from his perilous condition.  Had I not have been prepared for his struggles, and braced my feet firmly, I should have been dragged into the bog.

“Gently!” I cried, fearful that my friend, in his exertions, would rend the cloth.

My words were thrown away, however, for when did a man, struggling for life, ever listen to reason?  For a few seconds the suction was so great that I could only prevent him from sinking lower, and keep his head above the mud, until at length I recommended him to endeavor to work his legs loose, so that he could rest upon his stomach, as though he was attempting to swim.