CHANNEL SWIMMERS

Evening Post, Volume CV, Issue 5, 7 January 1928, Page 17

CHANNEL SWIMMERS

''When I look at all the other boys here, you make me feel quite ashamed, Henry," said Mrs. Hannibal Herring crossly. "You don't do anything; you've got no sport or humour in you." Henry Herring was a nervous, sensitive child, and his mother's criticism upset him. Obviously his Aunt Hilda had called. She had three- quite unmanageable sons, and it seemed to give her great pleasure to compare her children's naughty tricks with Henry's quieter ways. He had been delicate from childhood, and he could hardly be blamed for caring more for his books than for the wild ways of stronger children. He was a gentle, polite little lad, and usually Mrs. Herring was only too proud of his excellent manners. He wriggled out of the house, and made his way to a favourite rock on the bed of the ocean. He liked to sit there dreaming, but to-day his thoughts were anything but idle and pleasant. The time had come when he must make a mighty impression on his family. He thought hard with a terrible frown on his forehead, but nothing entered his head. Perhaps his mother was right. Perhaps he was a silly, good-for-nothing creature after all, he decided miserably. He flicked his tail angrily, and shot out into the sea again. Swimming was the one thing he really enjoyed, and which he could do well. But he did not look where he he was going, and straight away bumped his head. When he had recovered from the shock he saw a pair of legs drifting by. "These beastly Channel swimmers," he said, pettishly. "Really the sea is no longer one!s own." It was nearly lunch-time, and lie made his way back home. He hoped his mother was feeling amiable again, for he simply hated upsets. How he wished he could do something to make her proud of him, and his cousins less conceited about their own silly accomplishments, by which you can tell that he was fond of Mrs. Hannibal Herring, and not at all admiring of the ways of his aunt's family. Of course, it would have to be something very brave and something that he did all by himself, aiid then he [bought that he would try and swim the Channel. It was lale in the season to start practising, but he could swim well, so it might not be so difficult for him as for some people. For a week he practised hard, no longer perfecting his fancy curves, but learning to swim firmly and strongly like an arrow through the water. And then one night he crept out of bed and set off to the coast, where he found a tug which would follow him and hand him food from time to time. The adventure began just as the dawn was breaking. When Mrs. Herring went to call him he was missing. The morning passed and he did not put in an appearance. "Dear, dear," she said to herself. "Surely those cousins of his haven't got him into some scrape; they are mad enough for anything." And she laid her husband's tea with a heavy heart. She told him what had happened when he returned. "Do you think we had better tell the police," she said, anxiously, later in the evening. "He may have gone out last night for all we know." "Wait until the morning," said Hannibal Herring. "I'll just go out and see if anybody has caught sight of him." But he came back later with no news of his son. "I'll go to the police on my way to work in the morning," he said. "It's no good doing anything to-night." He threw a paper on to the table. "It's to-night's," he said, "if you want to look at it. lam just going to have a smoke, and then I shall turn in." Anxious little Mrs. Herring picked it up and scanned the front page. Big block letters caught her eyes. "Hannibal," she shrieked. ''Hannibal, just listen to this. Brave young man swims the Channel. It's our Henry. It says': Henry Herring landed at Dover this afternoon at 5.47 about, having swum from France since this morning. It is a record, and, had he not been persuaded against it, he would have tried to swim back again. Just fancy that!" she said, with her eyes beaming. "Our son, Henry. Why, he's a hero. I wonder why he didn't tell us what he was going to do. Those cousins of his haven't got an ounce of pluck between them. They'll never do anything like this. What time will he get back, do you think? and I wonder whether he'll want anything to eat. Oh, oh, isn't it glorious . . ." she rattled on. "I really must go and tell Hilda. There's a photo of him on the middle page. Do you thing it's good?" Hannibal Herring studied it for a few moments. "Not at all," he said. "I should never have recognised him. He looks cross-eyed.'* "Never mind," said Mrs. Herring, lovingly, "so long as it's he. Hilda's always picking him to pieces, but she can't say anything to this. You stay here in case he gets back before me." She pulled her bonnet off the hallstand and clapped it on her head. She tied the strings with shaky, excited fingers, and with the paper tucked under her arm she disappeared through the front door. "Dear Henry," she cooed, "I am the happiest and proudest mother in the world, but there, I always said that he knocked his cousins into a cocked hat. My son has swum the Channel. My son."