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Updated: May 9, 2025
Masters chanted. The two men strained. Slowly the pot tilted. Pember, standing at a window, called out over his shoulder: "They're coming back!" Above the creak of the pulleys rose the murmuring whisper of the spheres. "Heave!" Both men joined in the rhythmic call, putting their weight on the rope. The pot tilted more.
There was another young gentleman, who, though he might have been older, was considerably smaller than I was. There was a roguish, mischievous look about the countenance of Dicky Esse, which showed me at once that I must be prepared for tricks of all sorts from him. Another mate was seated in the berth, to whom Oldershaw introduced me. His name, I found, was Pember.
Early one morning, two or three days later, Mrs. Pember, lying awake waiting for the light to grow brighter that she might begin her day, heard a slight sound outside, of a certain incisiveness out of proportion to its volume. With an idleness that visited her only at early day-break, she wondered what it was.
We shouted out to them, lest they should not be aware that they could obtain a place to rest on, at all events, until morning. A voice not far off answered us. "Who is that?" I cried out, for I thought I recognised it. "Toby Kiddle, sir," was the answer. He was swimming up towards us. "I have just passed Mr Pember clinging to a piece of the wreck. I will go back and try to bring him here."
The sudden attack seemed to surprise the sphere. It bounded back, moving swiftly out of the way of the advancing one-man army. Pember roared. There were no words in what he shouted. It was just a cry, the battle cry of humanity. "Heave!" chorused Taylor and Masters. They too had a battle cry. Every man was doing his best and would die doing it, if necessary. There was a crack and a hiss.
After we had got through I was cross-examined by eight opposing counsel, including Pope, Pember, Balfour Browne and Seymour Bushe. Pope could not get a single point out of Mr. Tatlow. On the contrary it actually made his case stronger. His evidence from beginning to end was most masterly. It was the evidence of a man who knew what he was talking about and who told the truth. Mr.
Their team consisted of Pope, Pember, Balfour Browne, Seymour Bushe, McInerny and two juniors; our, much smaller but well selected, of Littler, Blennerhassett and Vesy Knox; the last-named then a rising junior, but long since a senior, and for some time past a leader, is still to the front in the bustling, reckless, impatient world of to-day. Most of the others, alas, are no longer with us.
"Not Mellony Pember," gasped the captain, a three-cornered smile trying to make headway against his embarrassment as he recalled the ancient tale of breaking the news to the Widow Smith; "Mellony Baldwin." "Mellony Baldwin!" repeated Mrs. Pember, stonily, not yet fully comprehending. The captain grew more and more nervous. "Yes," he proceeded, with the haste of despair, "yes.
The finest of them is his setting of the words: "By the River of Babylon we have set us down and wept, Remembering Thee, oh, Zion; Upon the willows we have hung our harps," which, as E.H. Pember says, "may well have represented to himself, the heart-broken composer, mourning by the banks of the Tiber, for the lost wife whom he had loved so long."
Mellony and her mother passed Captain Phippeny and Captain Smart, who still stood talking in the summer evening, the fence continuing to supply all the support their stalwart frames needed in this their hour of ease. Captain Smart nudged Captain Phippeny as the two figures turned the corner of Rosaly's Lane. "So you found 'em, Mis' Pember," remarked Captain Phippeny.
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