time to utter a yell--a loud yell--indicative of
surprise and scare--drowned the next second in bubble and splash.

What on earth did it mean? That Jarnley was playing the fool, was the
first idea that occurred to the spectators as they swam around or trod
water--the next that he had been seized with cramp. But what about
Cetchy? He too, was under water, and they hadn't gone down together,
for Jarnley hadn't touched him yet.

No--he hadn't. But Mpukuza knew a trick worth two of waiting for that.
These confiding youths had overlooked the possibility that this
descendant of many generations of savage warriors might be far more at
home in the water than they were themselves. But such in fact was the
case. Watching his opportunity, as his would-be tormentors bore down
upon him, the Zulu boy had simply dived, and grabbing Jarnley by both
ankles dragged him under water. And there he held him--and all the
bully's frantic attempts to escape were in vain. The grasp on his
ankles was that of a vice; and when at last it did relax, Jarnley rose
to the surface only to sink again, so exhausted was he. He was in fact
drowning, and but for his intended victim--who rose unruffled, unwinded,
even smiling, and at once seized him and towed him to the bank--he would
actually have lost his life. For the African boy could remain under
water a vast deal longer than they could, and that with the most perfect
ease.

"What's all this about?"

The voice--sharp, clear, rather high-pitched--had the effect of a sort
of electric shock on the streaming and now shivering group gathered
round the gasping and prostrate Jarnley, as it started round, not a
little guiltily, to confront a master.

The aspect of the latter was not reassuring, being decidedly hostile.
With his head thrown back he gazed on the dumb-foundered group with a
stony stare.

"Umph! Bathing before permission has been given?" he said.

"That black beast! I'll kill him," muttered the muddled and confused
Jarnley.

"Eh? What's the fellow saying?" cried the new arrival sharply, who, by
the way, was dressed in clerical black himself, and was now inspired
with the idea that the speaker was suffering from sunstroke, and was off
his head. For all its apprehensiveness, a sickly grin ran round the
group.

"He's talking about Cetchy--er--I mean Anthony, sir," explained some
one.

Now the Reverend Alfred Augustus Sefton was endowed with a vast fund of
humour, but it was