Scott Morgan
Boys of Oakdale Academy
CHAPTER XXXI.
SOMETHING WORTH DOING
It was during the first week in January that the great sensation of the winter took place in Oakdale. The January thaw came on early, and several days of warm rain, swelling the streams and overflowing the ponds, was followed by a freezing night or two, which left Lake Woodrim a glare of white ice and brought out every boy and girl who owned a pair of skates. The rising water had forced the opening of the big gates in both the upper and lower dams, and a flood from Lake Woodrim poured down through the channel into the small pond at the south of the village. Above the dam for some distance the sweep of the current toward the open gate had carried away many huge cakes of ice, and all along the shores the rise made it necessary for the skaters to take precautions about getting out onto the lake.
Rod Grant, having found that he could skate fairly well, was there, but he still persisted in keeping much by himself, avoiding as far as possible the advances of the boys, many of whom were now more than willing to be friendly with him. Barker also was there, but he took particular care to keep away from Rod, whom, in spite of Joshua Haskell’s story, he yet persisted in pretending to believe guilty of the dog shooting.
The skaters had been warned to keep away from the ice in the vicinity of the dam, especially that portion of it directly above the open gate, where the current was strong. Nevertheless, with her usual reckless daring, Lelia Barker skated out toward that dangerous spot, unmindful of the pleading of Sadie Springer and the shouted words of several boys who came hurrying toward her. At the very edge the ice was thick and apparently strong, but suddenly a cry of horror went up as the skaters saw a huge cake slowly cleave off and detach itself from the general mass. Another followed almost immediately, and the foolhardy girl was borne away on that second cake.
A boy, skating with all his might, dashed past several terrified fellows who had stopped to stare helplessly at the trapped girl. Reaching the edge of the ice from which the second cake was swiftly receding, the skater made an amazing and desperate leap across the open water. His momentum carried him to the floating icecake, upon which he struck sprawlingly as his skate irons shot out from beneath him. Across the cake almost to the far edge he slid, nearly sweeping the girl from her feet. The heel of one skate rasped into the ice and checked him, but only the size of the cake prevented it from tipping sufficiently to let him slide into the water. Swiftly he scrambled back to the center of the cake and stood up.
It was Rodney Grant, and his face was quite as pale as that of the girl, although his voice was calm and steady as he spoke.
“We’ve got to get off this thing right lively, or it will beat the stuffing out of us when it goes tumbling and smashing down through the gate. There’s only one chance. You’ve got to get wet, and you sure must trust me. Don’t grab me round the neck.”
There was no time for another word. They saw him seize her round the waist, lift her bodily from her feet, and then start across the cake with his back toward the dam. Into the icy water he plunged, carrying her with him.
Then began a fierce fight for life, watched by horrified boys and weeping girls. Some of the boys had presence of mind enough to dash for the nearest shore, tear off their skates, and attempt to get out upon the dam to offer assistance. They were too late, however, to be of any service in that way.
Strong swimmer though he was, Grant, encumbered by the helpless, frightened and half drowned girl, could not overcome the suction of the water, which relentlessly bore him toward the open floodgate. Fortunately, he did succeed in getting well clear of the huge icecake, which broke up into several crashing, grinding pieces as it was borne through the open gate. At last, whirled onward, he turned all his efforts to the seemingly hopeless task of supporting the girl and keeping his own head above water.
Shouting boys ran down the bank of the stream below the dam. Their cries were heard in the village, and men came hurrying out to learn what had happened.
For a moment or two the boy and girl disappeared in the swirl of white water directly below the dam. Few thought ever again to see either of them alive, but sudden cries went up as a human head appeared in the midst of the channel and Rodney Grant was seen still clinging to Lelia Barker as he battled with the current.
“The rocks,” cried Phil Springer – “they’ll be dashed on the rocks! They’re goners!”
In the midst of the stream some ledges thrust themselves, white and slippery, even above the swollen torrent. Ordinarily these ledges stood out high and dry, forming a sort of an island. Grant knew they were there. He knew likewise that the icy chill was benumbing him and his strength was failing. If the stream carried them down into the lower pond the chances were a thousand to one that the current would suck them beneath the ice, and that surely would be the end. To the young Texan those ledges seemed the sole possible means of salvation, and, regardless of the threatening bruises or injuries that might be sustained when cast upon them, he fought with every atom of his strength against being borne past.
He made it, too. The water flung them up on the dripping ledges, and there he somehow found a cleft into which the fingers of his right hand gripped, while his left arm still held the girl hugged fast.
“A rope! Bring a rope!” shouted scores of voices.
Two boys ran panting to Stickney’s store, returning with a huge coil of stout rope, which some men assisted them in carrying.
“How are we going to get it out to them?” was the question.
Then Bunk Lander appeared. He ripped off his coat and vest and broke the laces of his heavy shoes, which he kicked aside.
“Gimme one end of that rope!” he snarled. “What’s the matter with ye, anyhow? Hurry up! Do you want to see ’em drowned?”
“What are you going to do?” asked Phil Springer.
“I’m going to swim out there. Don’t talk. Tie that rope round my waist. Come on up-stream farther. I’ve got to start just below the dam, or the current will carry me past ’em. Come on, you snails!”
“You can’t do it – you can’t ever do it!” sobbed a voice.
“Who says I can’t?” snapped Bunk. “Oh, is it you, Barker? You ought to be doing something. You watch and you’ll see me do it.”
Into the comparatively still water just below the northern end of the dam Bunk waded unhesitatingly, with the end of the rope tied round his waist.
“Pay it out free!” he called back. “Don’t bother me by letting it get taut.”
In another moment, with the water almost up to his armpits, he plunged forward and began swimming with powerful strokes straight out toward the current. It caught him soon and began carrying him down the stream with increasing rapidity as he progressed.
“He can’t do it! He’ll never make it!” cried some of the spectators.
Bunk did not hear them, and it would have made no difference if he had. He realized that a single moment of hesitation or one false stroke might defeat him, and onward he swam, still heading across the current. Nearer and nearer he was carried to the ledges, and as he tipped his head sidewise to forge still farther toward midstream a sort of mad desperation filled his heart.
“I’ve got to do it!” his soul seemed to cry. “I must, and I will!”
An eddy caught him. Fortunately, it helped to bear him in the right direction. A few more strong strokes, and, in spite of his position, he almost laughed aloud with triumph. Now the spectators were yelling:
“He’ll do it! He’ll make it!”
Onto the ledges Lander was borne, and he also succeeded in getting a hold which he could maintain. Carefully he dragged himself out upon his hands and knees until he knelt on the very apex of the rock. Then with one hand he gripped Grant’s collar and assisted Rod in obtaining a more secure position. Lelia seemed unconscious. The two boys looked into each other’s eyes, and what they saw there sealed a compact of friendship as lasting as life itself.
“Good old Bunk!” chattered Rod.
“Boo!” said Lander. “This water’s awful cold. Say,” he added, pulling in the slack of the rope, “we’ll take a turn round under her arms first, then under yours next, and I guess I can hang on all right if them fellers on shore have got gumption enough to pull us out.”
They made the rope secure beneath Lelia’s arms, leaving enough of the free end to take a turn round Rod and Lander also. Then, signaling to the twenty men and boys on the shore who were ready to pull, they slid from the ledge.
By this time Main Street bridge just above the pond was lined with people who had been brought out by the shouts of alarm. Gaping, they watched the rope drawn in until Grant and Lander, lifting Lelia Barker between them, rose to their feet and waded to the bank. Then the spectators cheered and shouted and screamed like mad, for they had witnessed a double act of heroism that would long be remembered in Oakdale.
Of the three who passed through that terrible experience in the icy water Rodney Grant was the first to recover, and the following day found him apparently as well as ever. Lelia Barker was ill for a day or two, but she likewise came through it surprisingly well. Lander was not so fortunate, for he caught a heavy cold, which quickly developed into pneumonia. Everything possible was done for him; he had the constant attendance of two physicians, and a trained nurse was secured to watch over him faithfully.
Having a naturally rugged constitution, Lander made a good fight for life, and one day word went round through Oakdale that the doctors said the crisis was past and the boy was safely on the road to recovery.
When the time came that Bunk could receive visitors, Rodney Grant was the first one admitted to his bedside. Looking somewhat emaciated and very pale indeed, Lander was bolstered up amid a mass of soft pillows. His eyes shone with a light of pleasure and a grin overspread his face as he beheld the caller.
“Hello, Roddy, old fel,” he said. “I’m glad to see ye. I guess I’ve had a pretty tight squeeze of it, but you know I’m the toughest feller in town – everybody says so – and it’ll take more’n this to kill me.”
Grant grasped Lander’s hand with a strong yet tender pressure.
“Bunk, old chum,” he said in a voice that was husky in spite of himself, “I can’t find words to tell you how glad I am that you’re coming through all right. Everybody is glad. The whole town has heard the favorable report, and there’s general rejoicing.”
“You don’t say!” muttered Bunk whimsically. “That’s mighty queer, and I don’t just understand it. They’ve told me how the fellers have been ’round every day to ask how I was gettin’ on; they say even Barker’s been here more’n once. Seems queer folks in Oakdale should care a rap about me.”
“Bunk, they do care – everybody cares. You’ll find when you get out that you haven’t an enemy in this town – that every living soul in Oakdale is your friend.”
“Oh, say! you can’t include Barker. I s’pose he come ’round to ask just for a show of decency, ’cause I helped you save his sister from being drownded.”
“You’ll find even Barker your friend. Doubtless it was a bitter pill for him to swallow, but he came to me like a man and owned up that he was all in the wrong, asked my pardon, and begged me to shake hands with him.”
“Get out!” said Bunk “You don’t mean it! Well, come to think of it, it was just about the only thing he could do.”
“But he was sincere, I have no doubt of that. He acknowledged that he was satisfied I didn’t shoot his dog, even before Cooper received the letter from Davis.”
“The letter? What letter?”
“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know about that. Spotty, having gone to work in Belford and decided that he’d right likely never come back here, wrote Chipper Cooper, owning up to the shooting of Silver Tongue. In fact, he rejoiced in it and wanted Barker to know that he did it.”
“Oh, say, Roddy, some of the fellers ’round here who tried to smirch you must have felt pretty cheap and sheepish when they heard that.”
“Without exception they have acknowledged their mistake, and I have found them a pretty decent bunch, after all. They’re all good friends with me now. They’re just waiting to see you get out, in order to give you a rousing reception.”
Bunk was silent for several moments, the look of doubt upon his face giving way to one of growing satisfaction and happiness. Presently he spoke again.
“Rod, do you remember what you told me about the feller who had strength enough to be decent and stick to it in spite of everything, finally comin’ out on top of the heap? I didn’t believe it then, but now I kinder guess you was right. I was discouraged and didn’t cal’late ’twas any use for me to try to be decent, but I tell you right now that I’m goin’ to turn over a new leaf, stop wastin’ my time loafin’, and try to do something worth doin’.”
“Bunk,” returned Rodney, “when you get out you’ll find the whole town thinks that you have already done something worth doing.”
