Mrs. Cullingworth had run for hot water, and
presently with a tweezers we got the intruder out. There
was very little pain (more to-day than yesterday), but if
ever you are called upon to identify my body you may
look for a star at the end of my right forefinger.
When the surgery was completed (Cullingworth writhing
and groaning all the time) my eyes happened to catch the
medal which I had dropped, lying upon the carpet. I
lifted it up and looked at it, eager to find some topic
which would be more agreeable. Printed upon it was--
"Presented to James Cullingworth for gallantry in saving
life. Jan. 1879."
"Hullo, Cullingworth," said I. "You never told me
about this!"
He was off in an instant in his most extravagant
style.
"What! the medal? Haven't you got one? I thought
every one had. You prefer to be select, I suppose. It
was a little boy. You've no idea the trouble I had to
get him in."
"Get him out, you mean."
"My dear chap, you don't understand! Any one could
get a child out. It's getting one in that's the bother.
One deserves a medal for it. Then there are the
witnesses, four shillings a day I had to pay them, and a
quart of beer in the evenings. You see you can't pick up
a child and carry it to the edge of a pier and throw
it in. You'd have all sorts of complications with the
parents. You must be patient and wait until you get a
legitimate chance.
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