Chapter XII: A Hammersmith Hero

Owen Odd’s time seemed to him more occupied than ever since his summons to Plevna Gardens that winter’s night. His practice was a large, if not a very remunerative, one, and the patients, though they did not expect to be charged large fees, looked for as much attention as if they paid in guineas instead of shillings. Dr. Maureward’s assistant was not one to neglect his duties; he was as attentive and considerate to the cases where the fees were very doubtful as to those where he knew the bill had only to be sent in to be paid at once.

For one thing, it was his nature to do with all his might what his hands found to do; and, beyond this, there was an incident in his past that was ever present to his mind emphasising the dangers of duty neglected.

From the time of his becoming assistant to the Hammersmith practitioner he had never found much time that he could honestly call his own in which to mix with such friends as he had in London. Now that small circle was enlarged by the occupants of the second floor flat at No. 2, Plevna Gardens, he was not inclined to forego the pleasure their society gave him.

His professional calls there had been followed by others of a purely social nature. Both the major and his daughter had pressed him to come in when he could spare the time in an evening, and smoke a pipe and have a chat without any ceremony—invitations which he was only too ready to accept, though it entailed more strenuous work earlier in the day to obtain the necessary leisure.

On further acquaintance Owen had found the major a most interesting and amusing companion, well read and broad-minded, with whom it was a pleasure to converse, and his stories of his Indian life and adventures, in which his daughter, Amy, would often join, were always worth listening to; so that those evenings, when the young doctor, having worked at high pressure for the greater part of the day, found himself free for an hour or two, were red-letter ones in his calendar.

But Owen did not try to beguile himself into the belief that it was the major’s society alone that drew him to Plevna Gardens. There was a greater attraction than the old soldier’s stories, good as they were.

Amy Gordon, the Madame Juliette of the West End, had taken up an all-absorbing position in his life and thoughts.

He loved this beautiful girl with all the passion of his nature. Since that first evening she had been the one woman in the whole world for him. She had come into his life in such an extraordinary and mysterious way, in a way that even she herself could not account for, that he saw in their acquaintance something more than lay upon the surface. That it was preordained he had not a shadow of a doubt, and he read in the fact a happy issue to what at the outset was nothing more than a professional call. But at the moment he did not see how this was to come about. He was a poor man, with nothing, as far as he knew, save his work to depend upon; and in his present position that did not promise much. The post of assistant in a second-rate practice never meant affluence; and, beyond that, Amy Gordon was making money fast, and he was not one to marry—as the saying is—for money: he would scorn to be a hanger-on to his wife. No, when he married he must have an income equal to that of the woman he sought as his life-long companion. But for the moment he could afford to let matters drift. Outwardly they were only acquaintances, and, as far as he could see, Amy regarded him as nothing more.

She always seemed pleased to see him, and, as visit followed visit, grew to treat him more and more as a friend; but at times there was something in her manner that he could not fathom. She might be talking to him in the most natural and unconcerned way, and then suddenly she would become utterly absent and oblivious of the present, with her gaze fixed on space, and deaf to any remark he might make.

He could not help noticing this only occurred in connection with himself, and he one day taxed her with the fact.

“Is that so, doctor? I’m very rude, I’m afraid; but you must forgive me. I can’t help myself. It is the result of my life in India, I expect. At times my thoughts seem to escape me, and wander off in a manner that I cannot control.”

“But this is never the case when you are talking to the major; it is only with respect to me.”

“Really? Doctor Odd, you must see I am not as other girls; there is something strange about me. No, no; it is so,” as Owen made a deprecatory movement. “I think I have told you before there are many things about myself that puzzle me. I seem to possess a second nature, over which I can exercise no control. It is something altogether beyond me, and I can merely obey.”

“If I might give you my professional opinion, I should say you were working too hard up at Bond Street, and required rest and a change. You are threatened with nerves, Miss Gordon. And nerves are nasty things when they are thwarted or ignored.”

“Yes, a change would be nice, no doubt, but it is out of the question just now, with the season in full swing and one’s waiting-room crowded. No, I must wait a little time for that.”

“Then all I can say is, get as much rest as you can, Miss Gordon, together with outdoor exercise. There’s nothing like fresh air, after all.” And the major returning to the room just then the conversation took a different turn.

It was shortly after this, as Owen was returning one evening from visiting a patient in New Street, near the Creek, that the laughter and shouts of some children playing on the muddy, shelving bank of the river attracted his notice, and he stopped to watch them. Not that he could see much—the night was closing in, and objects in the distance were becoming indistinct. His outdoor work was over for the day, and taking his case from his pocket he committed the unprofessional act of lighting a cigarette. He stood there, lazily smoking, when in a moment the tone of the shouting changed from merriment to horror and dismay, and he became aware of a small form rushing towards him, bawling something he could not catch, and pointing towards the knot of youngsters lower down.

“What’s the matter, Tommy?” asked Owen, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder as he passed and stopping him.

“Jem Blain’s in the water, and drowning,” screamed the boy; and would have rushed on if Owen had not detained him. “’Ere, leave go, will yer? I’m going to tell his mother,” with a further struggle to get free.

“Where is he? Can you see him?” And Owen hurried down to the lad’s companions at the water edge as his informant dashed off into the gloom.

The tide was running out fast, and some twenty yards from the shore the doctor could just make out something on the surface of the river, but the next moment it had disappeared.

“There he is! There he is! He’s been down once already, and he can’t swim.” And the boys moved along the mud bank as the object was carried down towards the bridge.

Owen recognised that there was not a moment to delay—it was a case of life or death within the next minute or two; and, tearing off his coat and waistcoat as he ran, he dashed into the river somewhat in advance of the drowning lad, hoping to be able to get far enough to intercept him as he passed.

He was a good swimmer, but he soon found that, weighted with the thick clothes he was wearing, he had no easy task before him. Striking out as rapidly as he was able, he reached the spot he had made for, only to see the boy for a moment through the gloom some four or five yards from him, nearer the center of the river. And then it was only an arm and hand that caught his eye; the rest of the small body was submerged.

And now it became a race, muscle against tide, and the owner of the muscle _meant_ to win.

During the next few moments Owen experienced all the fascination that is felt by those engaged in a great struggle in which determination comes to their aid. He had often fought death before, but it had been in a quieter, though not less determined, manner. Then there had been waiting, watching, and expectation. Now all this was compressed in one gigantic effort—all he could do must be done at once, or it would be useless. Death had got his grasp on his victim, and unless he could tear him from his grip before his fingers tightened his opponent must prevail.

Owen swam as he had never swum before. Every ounce of his strength and willpower he put into his strokes. He _would_ win, he would not be beaten. The boy’s life was not so much to him—he hardly thought of that as a life—it was the act of snatching it from destruction that filled his mind through those moments of intense concentration.

He was gaining. There was little to guide him now. All had disappeared save one small hand.

Half a dozen strokes and he would be up to it. He felt he had the strength of three men as he cut through the muddy tide.

He had been swimming on his side, using the powerful overhead stroke, and now he turned his head to grasp his prize.

The hand had disappeared. There was nothing before him but the rippled surface of the river. He was too late, after all.

“He’s just in front of yer, master. He’s gone under. Can’t yer grab him?” came the shout from the bank from the drowning lad’s companions.

Owen’s breath was almost gone, swimming as he had been had taxed him to the uttermost; but he was not beaten yet. Taking a long breath, he dived. He could see nothing beneath the surface—the light was too dim and the water too thick. But if the sense of sight failed he still retained that of touch, and he had not progressed more than a couple of yards when he felt something in contact with his hand. He grabbed it, and, coming to the surface, dragged it with him.

As he shook the water from his eyes he could have shouted, had breath remained, in exultation. He had got the boy!

For the moment victory was with him, but the struggle was not over yet.

The tide was running strongly, and each moment drew him farther from the shore. It was useless to attempt to fight his way back—he had not the strength. All he could do was to keep himself and his prize above water. Fortunately, the boy was unconscious, and did not struggle. He held him as he had learnt to hold a rescued person in the old days of his swimming instruction, and trod water, suffering himself to be carried on by the tide, and reserving his strength as much as possible.

Meanwhile the shouts of the boys on the bank had given notice that something was amiss, and attention had been called to the river, so that by the time Owen and his burden drew near the bridge at Hammersmith a fringe of excited watchers lined the up-river side, peering into the gloom in the hope of catching sight of rescued and rescuer; and as a small dark object could be made out, to all appearance helplessly floating on the surface, a mighty cheer went up. At the same time a boat shot out from the shadows on the Middlesex side.

That cheer reached the ears of the swimmer and infused new courage through his weary limbs. He had been feeling he could not hold out much longer. He was chilled to the bone, and his legs and arms felt like lead; his grasp on his prize was relaxing. But now he knew his position was seen and that help was at hand.

He would _not_ give in. Life was worth a further struggle. And during those dark moments the face of Amy Gordon seemed to smile on him through the gloom, and he felt brave and confident once more.

But it was the final effort. The will was there, but the body was weak. It had been taxed to the uttermost, and could do no more.

Again he felt the remains of his strength vanishing, and this time he knew it would not return.

“Keep up! Keep up! There’s a boat coming!” rang the cry from overhead. “Keep up!” And Owen almost smiled as it reached his ears. It was so easy to shout directions from dry land.

The boat _was_ coming. He had caught sight of it. Would it be in time? It was a long way off yet, and he was so weary, so weary. One more effort. He tried to make it. He could not. His arms and legs refused to act. He was beaten at last, after all. It seemed hard, but——Darkness came down on him, and he knew no more.

* * * * *

It was the evening following the events just related.

Amy Gordon had entered the dining-room at Plevna Gardens to find her father seated in front of the fire, with a paper in his hand. He looked round as she approached to kiss him, as she always did first thing on her return from business.

“So you’ve got back all right, dear.”

“Yes, father, and very glad I am to be home once more. I’ve had an awfully busy day. They’ve been coming in in shoals. I could not see them all, and disappointed a dozen or more by telling them they would have to write for appointments.”

“Then you’ve not seen the paper, I expect?”

“Not I. Why, I had hardly time to swallow my lunch, much less amuse myself by reading.”

“Well, go and get ready for dinner, and afterwards I’ll show you something that will interest you.”

“Why, father, what secret have you got for me—eh?”

“Never mind now. Go and do as I tell you,” and there was an amused smile on the major’s face.

Dinner was over and had been cleared away. The servant had placed the decanters on the table at the end nearest the fire, and Amy and her father had turned their chairs towards the blaze, when the girl said:

“And now, father, for your wonderful secret.”

“Look at that!” said the major, handing his daughter a copy of the _Reflector_ of that day’s date. “What do you think of that? It seems we number a hero among our friends.”

Amy took the illustrated sheets, and was glancing at them carelessly when her eyes suddenly became fixed on the representation of a man, in ordinary professional costume, above the heading, “A Hammersmith Hero.”

“Why, it’s Doctor Odd, surely?” she exclaimed.

“Yes, it’s the doctor right enough, though it’s a precious bad likeness. But read what they say about him. It was a plucky thing to do.”

Without answering, Amy rapidly read the glowingly worded description of Owen’s adventure the previous evening.

It gave a more or less accurate account of what had taken place, and concluded as follows:

“Jem Smith, the bargee, with his companion, forcing their boat
against the swiftly flowing tide, only managed to reach the gallant
rescuer just in time. The brave doctor was in the act of sinking,
and had already disappeared save for his head, when Smith, throwing
his oars aside, leant over the gunwale and grabbed him by the hair
with one hand, while with the other he seized the unconscious lad.
This was all he could do, and though his companion quickly came
to his aid, they were compelled to await the arrival of a second
boat before the doctor and the boy he had so gallantly risked his
life to save could be lifted from the water and brought to land.
Both were unconscious, and for a long time resisted all efforts to
restore animation; but at length these proved successful, and the
two recovered sufficiently to allow of their being removed to their
respective homes. On our representative calling later in the evening
he had the satisfaction of hearing both were going on as well as
could be expected, and that the gallant doctor would probably be
quite himself again in the course of a few hours.”

“We congratulate Hammersmith on numbering among its inhabitants a
gentleman who, while giving his time and strength to the alleviation
of pain and suffering, does not hesitate to risk his life in the
cause of humanity. It is understood that the attention of the Royal
Humane Society will be called to the heroic action of Dr. Owen Odd.”

“Well, Amy, what do you think of that, eh?” asked the major, as, watching her eyes, he saw that she had reached the last line.

“The doctor’s a brave man, father. It isn’t everyone who would have done what he did.”

“No, it isn’t. I think it would be nice if we sent round to ask how he was getting on. What do you say, Amy?”

“As you like, father. But I should fancy he will be coming very shortly to see you. He hasn’t been for more than a week now.”

“No, he hasn’t,” and while he was speaking the major had kept his eyes on his daughter’s face, for resting on it was an expression he could not understand. Her eyes had remained glued on the portrait of the “Hammersmith Hero,” and yet they seemed to be looking _through_ it rather than at it.

Her father made one or two further remarks, which drew monosyllables in reply, and, seeing she was lost in thought, he took up a book, and silence reigned in the room.

When at length his daughter spoke it was to make a remark on an entirely different matter, and the subject of the doctor’s exploit was not again referred to.

On the major retiring at half-past ten, his usual hour, his daughter, after seeing him to his room and that all his things were put out ready, returned to the dining-room, and taking up the _Reflector_ again, opened it, spread it out upon the table, and leaning her head upon her hands, gazed at the illustration.

Some minutes passed in this manner, and then, rising quickly, she exclaimed in a tone ringing with conviction:

“At last I have it. Of course it was _he_. I knew I should remember.” And switching off the light she left the room.