Scott Morgan
Oakdale Boys in Camp

CHAPTER XVIII.
DISPOSING OF UNWELCOME NEIGHBORS

“To begin with,” said Grant, “I told you that I didn’t think the Dutchman was as sleepy as he looked, but I’ll confess I never reckoned him capable of putting up a joke of this sort.”

“Joke!” rasped Crane, shaking with mingled pain and wrath. “I don’t see no joke abaout it.”

“You cuc-can’t see very well, anyhow,” reminded Springer. “One of your eyes is plumb buttoned up. You’re a spectacle.”

“Yeou don’t have to tell me. Say, ain’t there nothing I can put on to stop the smarting? What are you all standin’ around for? Want to see me perish in horrible agony right before yeour eyes? Why don’t yeou do something?”

It is always advisable for campers, when planning to spend some time in the woods, to include in their outfit a medicine case containing such simple remedies as may be needed; but, unfortunately, the Oakdale boys had failed to provide anything of the sort. Therefore they were now at a loss to know what could be done to alleviate Crane’s sufferings, but presently Grant thought of something, and, taking care not to attract the still whirling and whirring hornets, he went back into the shadows of the woods and procured two heaping handfuls of soft, moist earth, which, as well as possible, was presently bound or plastered upon Crane’s wounds.

“Wait till I ketch that Dutchman!” Sile kept muttering through his set teeth.

“Keep still,” advised Rod. “The bandage will hold those dirt poultices over your eye and behind your ear, but you’ll shake off the dabs I’ve stuck to your jaw and in other places, if you keep on talking.”

So Sile relapsed into silence, save for an occasional bitter groan, and the others took into consideration the problem of getting rid of the hornets.

“We’ll have to destroy the nest somehow,” said Rod, “for as long as that remains where it is those pests will give us trouble.”

“We’ll find a way to fix them after breakfast,” said Stone. “As long as we don’t go near them and fail to attract their attention by our movements, there’s little probability that they will give us much annoyance.”

“This cuc-camping expedition is certainly proving rather sus-strenuous and exciting,” observed Springer.

For some reason Piper seemed to find it difficult to suppress a show of satisfaction, but this he tried to do, even though he could not forget with what glee his companions had joshed him about his unpleasant experience with the sleeping bag. Had Sleuth known that the victim of Carl Duckelstein’s “gougers” was responsible for that first night adventure, he must surely have regarded Crane’s misfortune as a piece of retributive justice. Unsuspecting, however, he refrained from gloating and pretended to commiserate with the wretched chap.

With the fire replenished, Stone put on a kettle of water, and, while that was rising to the boiling point, he peeled and sliced some potatoes from the small supply they had brought. Bacon, fried out, provided fat in which to fry the sliced potatoes, and the salmon Crane had caught was put into the kettle to boil. There was a supply of bread left over from the loaves baked upon the previous day; and, for variety, Stone made hot chocolate instead of coffee.

Now at home chocolate, although occasionally enjoyable, is liable to seem rather flat, insipid and tame; but for breakfast in camp, made with milk, either fresh or condensed, and served piping hot, there is nothing better or more satisfying.

And so, when the fish was properly boiled, the potatoes fried and the chocolate ready, their appetites being by that time keen and demanding, they sat down to a meal which seemed to all, with the exception of Crane, the best they had yet tasted. Even in spite of his still burning wounds, Sile ate with apparent relish. Once they all ducked as a passing hornet whizzed overhead with a humming sound like that of a tiny gas motor turning up at full speed. Crane was the only one who did not laugh; he growled.

Breakfast over and everything cleared away, they resumed consideration of their new and unwelcome neighbors, a few of which, apparently on guard, hovered around the nest.

“With a long pole we might smash the sus-stuffing out of that nest,” declared Springer.

“And probably get ourselves well stung while we were about it,” said Stone. “A smudge is the thing to cook them. A good, heavy smudge, started as close as possible to the nest opening, would smother them as they came out.”

“How close is as close as possible?” questioned Crane.

“Right up against the nest if we can put it there; not over six or eight inches away, at most.”

“Well,” drawled Sile, with a returning touch of whimsicality, “I’d sartainly like to see some of yeou fellers make that smudge and start it goin’.”

“Misery loves company,” laughed Rod. “I don’t judge there’s enough wealth in this outfit to tempt me to try that.”

“Perhaps we can work it without getting near enough to be stung,” said Ben.

“How? how?” they cried.

“If we can find a pole long enough to enable me to reach the nest and remain hidden behind the end of the tent, I’ll show you.”

Some time was spent in securing the pole, but eventually, some rods from the camp, a tall, straight, slender sapling was selected, cut and trimmed. Then Stone searched about for the material to make his smudge, stripping the bark, both wet and dry, from cedar tree trunks. He also secured a huge dry toadstool as large as his two fists.

With these things the boys returned to the smoldering campfire, where, placing the toadstool in the center, Ben wound and twisted and tied the strips of cedar bark about it, with plenty of the dry bark on the outside and numerous strips running through the elongated ball. The end of the pole, whittled sharp, was then carefully thrust into this ball, after which Ben set it afire and fanned it until it was sending forth a surprisingly heavy, rank cloud of smoke.

“Now,” he said, “to see what can be done with our friends, the enemy.”

His movements were watched by the others as, with the butt of the pole in his hands, he slipped swiftly round behind the tent. From his place of concealment he thrust the reeking smudge forth toward the hornets’ nest, where a few of the creatures, seemingly on guard, still circled with much angry grumbling. Up against the end of the nest that contained the opening, the smudge was pushed, and the nest itself was practically enveloped in smoke.

“Naow come aout, consarn ye, come aout!” cried Crane revengefully. “Mebbe that will cure yeour asthmy and stop yeou from wheezin’.”

It was impossible to see whether or not the hornets came forth, but certain it was that, did they attempt to do so, they were promptly overcome by the smoke, for the few that darted and circled in the vicinity were not augmented in number. Some of these, even, apparently making a desperate and reckless charge toward their threatened home, were seen to drop, overcome by the rank smoke.

Lowering the butt of the pole to the ground, Stone left the smudge burning against the hornets’ nest and rejoined his watching friends.

“We’d better keep watch to see that it doesn’t set fire to the woods,” he said. “By the time it burns out there will not be many hornets left to bother us.”

“You’ve got a great head on your shoulders, Stoney, old scout,” complimented Piper.

“I wish,” said Crane revengefully, “that I could hold that Dutchman’s nose in that smoke for abaout one minute. I guess he’d cough some.”

It was a long time before the smoke of the smudge died down to a tiny, wavering spindle of blueish gray; but when this took place the nest lay there, burned a bit and blackened at one end, a deserted looking thing indeed. If any of the hornets had survived, it seemed that they had departed in desperation or despair.

“Who is going to see if there are any left?” asked Sleuth.

“I think Sile would be a good one to do that.”

“What?” shouted Crane, glaring at the speaker with his unbandaged eye. “What d’yeou mean?”

“Why,” said Sleuth innocently, “if there should be any, and you happen to get stung two or three times more, it wouldn’t make much difference. You couldn’t feel a great deal worse.”

“Bah!” snarled Sile. “That’s sense, ain’t it? If you get me monkeyin’ round that thing yeou’ll know it, by jinks!”

It was Stone who picked up the pole and poked the nest around with it. Although he mutilated that nest, no hornets appeared, and, thrusting the charred, pointed end of the pole into the thing, he carried it away into the woods and left it.

“There,” he said, returning triumphantly, “we’re at peace once more.”

CHAPTER XIX.
THE HERMIT’S CABIN

Not until an hour or more after dinner did any of the boys set out to visit Spirit Island. With the exception of Crane, all showed some eagerness to go; with the stingers extracted from his wounds, Sile was much more comfortable, but he made his condition an excuse for remaining at the camp. And, as the canoe was not large enough comfortably to carry more than three, Stone also self-sacrificingly agreed to remain behind.

The day was hot and muggy and still, and there were some masses of clouds bulking up along the western horizon as the canoe put forth bearing the three investigators. The two who remained behind watched them from the shore and wished them luck.

“Bring back that dog with ye, Sleuthy,” called Sile. “Yeou’ve got lots of courage in the daytime, even if yeou be rather chicken-hearted after dark.”

“Bah!” flung back Piper from the waist of the canoe. “Anything we’ll find isn’t liable to make me run half as fast as you did this morning. As a sprinter, Craney, you could cop the blue ribbon if you happened to be chased by a ‘gouger’ or two.”

“Thinks he’s smart, don’t he?” muttered Sile, turning to Ben. “Why, he’s the biggest coward I ever saw. He’d run from his own shadder.”

In the full light of day Spirit Island wore a harmless, peaceful look, and the cool shadows of its pines seemed genuinely inviting to the perspiring lads who wielded the paddles. As they drew near the island Grant cast a glance toward the heavy black clouds, which were steadily mounting higher in the sky.

“Think there’s going to be a shower, Phil?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t wonder,” answered Springer. “Those look like thunderheads, though we haven’t heard any thunder yet.”

At this very moment, however, a low, muttering, distant grumble came to their ears, as if far away beyond the mountains the storm was getting into action.

“I think, comrades,” said Piper, “it will be wise for us to make all possible haste to conclude our investigations and return to the security of our tent. Without sufficient shelter, I’d scarcely find pleasure in being caught upon this island by a thunderstorm.”

“There’s the hermit’s hut, you know,” suggested Rod.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” returned Sleuth. “And, at any rate, it’s quite possible that the roof is rotten and leaky.”

Again the thunder was heard, somewhat more distinctly this time, and the clouds seemed to increase in blackness and density as they rose.

Choosing a place to land, the boys brought the canoe to the shore, got out and pulled it up safely. There they paused for a moment before seeking a way through the pines, thrilled a bit in spite of themselves by the fact that their feet were at last upon the haunted island.

“Come on,” said Rod. “I agree that it will be a right good plan to hurry some.”

He led the way into the deep shadows of the pines, which seemed strangely hushed and silent in the hot, breathless air. In those woods no bird was heard chirping and no squirrel chattering. It gave them a feeling that flesh-and-blood creatures of all kinds had for some reason learned to avoid the mysterious island.

Presently they came to a small opening or glade amid the pines, and there before their eyes were several deep excavations in the ground.

“Look!” said the Texan in a surprised voice. “There are the holes Granger told us about – the holes made by people seeking to recover some of the plunder Old Lonely was supposed to have buried.”

Only a few moments did they linger there. The thunder was growing louder, and they hurried on until they came into what apparently had once been a well-beaten path. Following this path, they reached another and much larger tree-surrounded open spot, which seemed to be located near the center of the island. And there before them they saw the hut of the old hermit.

It stood at one side of the opening, close beneath the shadows of a thick cluster of pines which were taller than the other trees upon the island. Indeed, so close to these tall trees had the cabin been built that, having sagged and lurched like a person overcome by age and disease, it was now supported by the very largest tree of the group, against which it leaned. Only for this tree, the crude, ill constructed building must have long ago fallen to the ground. A part of the roof had caved in, leaving a ragged hole, and the remainder seemed likely to drop at the slightest provocation. In one side of the cabin there was a small square window, in which remained no fragment of glass or sash. In the front of the cabin the remnants of a stout door made from hewn timbers still hung upon heavy rusty hinges.

So lonely, wretched and repellant was the appearance of this ruin that the three boys, who stood gazing upon it in silence, were all deeply moved, and they wondered that a human being could have lived in such a place for five long years with no friends or neighbors and only a dog as his companion. Truly, it seemed that no one save a hunted criminal, in constant dread of the prison from which he had escaped, would have chosen to dwell there, aloof from other human beings and shut in by the somber pines which protected him from inquisitive eyes.

The silence and gloom of the island, the sight of the old hut, the distant mutterings of thunder, and a subtle, electrical tension in the air combined to give the young investigators a most unpleasant sensation of nervousness, which was revealed by the sudden cackling burst of laughter that came from Springer’s lips – laughter that was suppressed almost as suddenly as it began.

Now it is in strange and silent places that the echo, once believed to be a mocking elf, chooses always to linger, mischievously waiting to make itself heard. And in the depths of the pines beyond the hut the taunting elf awoke in mockery of Springer. The laughter flung back from those recesses, like that of the perturbed boy, yet strangely and weirdly dissimilar, caused Phil to gasp a bit and clutch at Grant’s arm.

“Hear that!” he whispered.

“Nothing but an echo,” said Rodney in a low, even tone, although he realized that his own nerves were unusually tense.

“Gee! that’s right,” breathed Phil in relief; “but it gug-gug-gave me a jump.”

“It must be evident, comrades,” said Piper hurriedly, “that yonder hut can scarce afford us shelter from the storm which is advancing apace.”

The dark clouds had now shut out the sun, and the shadows beneath the pines were swiftly becoming so dense that the eye could pierce them for a short distance only, save when a flash of lightning made every object stand forth with great distinctness. The thunder which followed these electrical discharges was of the snappy, crackling kind, but the protracted space of time between each flash and report made Grant confident that the heart of the storm was yet miles away.

“You’re right, Sleuth,” agreed Springer eagerly; “we cuc-can’t get away from the rain in that old sh-shack.”

“Let’s take a look inside the hut, anyhow,” suggested Grant. “I hate to hike away without doing that much.”

Starting forward as he spoke, he stepped into a shallow excavation, which he would have observed before him under different circumstances. Annoyed, he scrambled up from his knees, to which he had plunged.

“Look out, fellows,” he warned, noticing for the first time that there were many similar excavations in the glade. “The treasure hunters sure have near dug up the whole place.”

With some reluctance Phil and Sleuth followed Rodney. At the open door of the hut the Texan stopped to look inside, and his companions peered over his shoulder. But the gloom was now so intense that little of the hut’s interior could be made out.

“Nun-nothing there, anyhow,” said Phil.

“Nothing that anybody need be afraid of,” declared Piper. But his teeth clicked, and his voice was filled with an odd vibration that betrayed the agitation he sought to conceal.

“I’m going in,” said Rodney. “Let’s all go in, so that at least we can say we’ve done so.”

“Lot of good that will dud-do us,” muttered Springer.

“Here goes,” said Grant, stepping inside.

Moved by a sudden desperate impulse, Piper pushed Springer aside and followed Rodney.

“If you’re afraid,” he flung back at Phil, “you don’t have to come; you can stay out.”

“Who’s afraid?” indignantly snapped Springer. “I guess I’ve gug-got as much nerve as you have.”

He entered also, and the three boys stood there in the hut of the old hermit. Their feet were on the bare ground, for there had never been a floor.

Dimly, at one side of the hut, they could see the framework of a bunk, on which, doubtless, Old Lonely had drawn his last breath, with the faithful dog watching at his side. A chimney, made of stones and clay mortar, had, with the lurching of the hut, broken in two halfway to the roof, and it now seemed ready to come tumbling down in one mass. The stones of the fireplace had been torn up, and doubtless this was the work of those who had fancied it possible some of the man’s plunder might be found beneath them.

“Looks to me lul-like the old shanty is liable to tut-tumble down almost any minute,” whispered Springer chokingly. “I don’t want it to dud-drop on my head.”

Grant lifted his hand. “Listen!” he urged.

With lips parted, they did not breathe for a few moments, and their ears were strained to hear any unusual sound. What they heard seemed to be the dull, muffled regular ticking of a clock coming from some hidden spot which they could not locate.

In the semi-darkness the whites of their eyes shone distinctly as they turned significant glances upon one another. Granger had told them of this mysterious ticking, and it brought vividly to their minds his description of the finding of the dead man with his clock beating off the seconds upon a shelf above the bunk. Perhaps it was the electricity in the atmosphere that produced a tugging sensation at the roots of their hair. Springer’s eyes rolled toward the open doorway, through which he longed to dash, being restrained only by fear that such an action would subject him to the joshing of his campmates. Piper was scarcely less eager to depart.

Such dim light as sifted into the old hut came through the small window and the ragged hole in the roof, above which black clouds were now outspread. Suddenly athwart these clouds streamed a writhing streak of lightning, which illumined the entire interior of the cabin, causing Piper to crouch and cringe, his mouth and throat dry, his heart beating like a hammer.

“By Jinks!” said Rodney. “That was a good one. I reckon it struck somewhere.”

It seemed that it must have struck among the mountainous hills to the westward, for suddenly they echoed and re-echoed with a tremendous crashing, rumbling, earth-jarring roar that gradually and reluctantly died away. Following this a light rush of wind passed through the tops of the tallest pines, dying out quickly and seeming to make the silence still more profound.

And in that silence the three boys distinctly heard a faint tapping, as of ghostly fingers beating feebly against the cabin wall. This was accompanied by a sound still more disturbing, resembling a low, half-whining wail.

“Gug-good by!” choked Springer, as he dashed from the hut.

CHAPTER XX.
GRANT TO THE RESCUE

Piper’s trembling hands clutched Grant and clung to him.

“I’m going too,” said Sleuth huskily. “It’s ten to one this old hut comes down in the storm. I wouldn’t stay here, anyhow.”

“I don’t reckon I would myself,” acknowledged Rod.

“Then,” said Piper, tugging at him, “we’d better hustle. If I know Springer, he won’t stop this side of Camp Oakdale, and we don’t want to be left on this island with no way of getting off.”

“That wouldn’t be pleasant,” confessed Rod, “though I don’t opine Phil would desert us. He’ll wait for us.”

“Don’t you believe it,” spluttered Sleuth as they reached the open air. “If we want to stop him before he gets away with the canoe, we’ve got to make tracks.”

Stumbling across the glade, they found the path, along which they dashed, Piper in advance. Reaching branches whipped them across their faces, and it seemed that the black thickets on every hand contained a thousand menacing terrors. True, Grant was not as frightened as Piper, but the moment he began running he was overcome to some degree by that fear-compelling sensation known to every boy who has fled in the dark from a menacing creation of his fancy. Occasional flashes of lightning served only to blind them and make the ensuing gloom seem deeper and blacker. The thunder-shocks beat upon their ears, but as yet no rain fell.

Panting heavily, they came out suddenly upon the shore and realized they were some distance from the place where the canoe had been left. In his confusion and excitement Sleuth turned in the wrong direction, but Grant checked him by calling sharply:

“This way, Piper – the canoe is this way!”

“No,” said Sleuth, “you’re wrong; it’s this way.”

But, fearing to be left alone on that terrible island, he turned and followed Rod.

In a few moments they discovered Springer in the act of launching the canoe, and Grant shouted at him angrily.

“What do you reckon you’re doing?” cried the exasperated Texan. “Are you trying to run away and leave us, you coward?”

Phil’s face was almost ghastly, but he paused and waited for them. “I wasn’t gug-going away,” he declared.

“It sure didn’t look like it!” retorted Rodney sarcastically.

“I was just gug-going to get the canoe into the water and wait for you,” explained Springer. “I’m gug-glad you’ve come. It isn’t raining yet, and – ”

“But it will be right soon. We’re due to get a drenching if we start out.”

“We’ll get a dud-drenching if we stay here.”

“We might,” suggested Sleuth, with pretended bravado, “succeed in finding poor shelter beneath the thickest pines.”

“And a sus-soaking on the water won’t be any worse than one on land,” argued Phil.

“I was not thinking of the rain,” said Rod, casting a glance toward the black, lightning-torn clouds; “it’s the wind we’ve got to reckon on. We don’t want to be swamped out in the middle of the lake.”

But now Piper joined Springer in urging him away, and, yielding, he got into the canoe and seized one of the paddles.

“Lively!” he ordered. “Get in and push off. Show what you’ve got in your arms, Phil.”

“You bet I will,” promised Springer.

Away from the island shot the canoe, propelled by all the vigor they could muster. Only a few rods had they paddled when there arose from the depths of the pines the mournful howling of a dog, which was drowned by another tremendous peal of thunder. Even this, however, could not spur them to put more strength into the paddle strokes, for already they were doing their best.

Their one object, now, was to do their utmost to reach Pleasant Point before the storm should come upon them in all its fury, or at least to get as near the point as possible; for they knew that to be caught far from shore in the canoe while the open lake was being swept by such a burst of wind as often accompanies severe thunderstorms would be not only most uncomfortable, but, in all probability, extremely perilous.

Between the thunder-claps they could hear afar in the mountains a low and ominous moaning, but even Sleuth turned no backward glance toward the black sky that seemed to shut down perpendicularly not far beyond the white cross that marked Lovers’ Leap. As yet, although the surface of the lake was broken and dark, there seemed little wind, save occasional puffing blasts of short duration.

So intent were they upon their own business that it was some time before they perceived the small white sail of a boat somewhat to the right of their course. With each wind gust the sail filled and dipped, but between the puffs it was barely taut, and the boat, a tiny, punt-like affair, was moving slowly. Only one person could be seen, and he sat in the stern of the boat, steering.

“That gent sure better hustle some,” observed Grant, “unless he’s anxious to get a proper ducking. If he has oars, he’s foolish not to use them. We’re traveling twice as fast as he is, and we’ll soon be passing him.”

“A fellow might think him dud-deaf and dud-dumb and blind,” said Springer. “If he hears or sees the storm, he’s a chump not to get a move on.”

Piper opened his lips to make a remark, but a jagged, hissing spurt of lightning caused him to duck involuntarily and hold his breath, awaiting the thunder that must follow. It came, crashing and flung back in reverberations from the mountains, and Sleuth shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

“Next time I visit Spirit Island,” he declared, “I shall take special pains to make sure there’s no thunderstorm on tap.”

“Nun-next time!” scoffed Phil. “I’ll bet there isn’t money enough to hire you to go there again.”

“Speak for yourself, my friend,” retorted Sleuth, “and judge not the courage of others by your own cowardice.”

“Cowardice! Bah! You were sus-scared almost stiff.”

“But I didn’t run away.”

The moaning sound was growing louder and more distinct, changing gradually but swiftly to a suppressed, smothered roar. The black sky seemed to close over Lovers’ Leap and blot it out. The rain was coming, a few drops of the advance guard pattering around the canoe, in which the two paddle-wielders continued to exercise the full strength of their arms.

They had been seen by Crane and Stone, both of whom were now standing well out upon the point, watching them with no small anxiety.

Like the trio returning from Spirit Island, the person in the sail-driven boat seemed to be making for Pleasant Point, and they were now so near that they recognized him as he, looking round, appeared to discover them for the first time.

“Well, I’ll be dud-dished!” exclaimed Springer. “It’s our friend, James Simpson, Esquire. Seems to me he’s planning to make a cuc-call at our camp.”

“A right good time for him to come around if he intends to provoke further trouble,” muttered Rodney. “I’d advise him to lower that sail and use his oars. I opine there’s going to be something doing in the hurricane line directly.”

“You bet,” agreed Piper, as the roaring sound increased with surprising rapidity. “Here she comes now.”

“Hold the canoe steady, Phil,” admonished the Texan.

With a shriek the wind swept over them, tearing the surrounding water into foam. In a twinkling, almost, it struck the sail of Simpson’s boat, and in another twinkling the tiny craft upset, pitching its occupant into the lake.

“I knew it, the chump!” cried Grant above the screaming of the wind. “He’s got his ducking ahead of the rainstorm.”

“Wonder if he can sus-swim?” shouted Phil apprehensively. “Don’t want to see the pup-poor feller drowned.”

“He sure ought to know how to swim, living near this lake,” returned Rodney. “Where is he, anyhow?”

“There! there!” cried Sleuth, pointing, as a head appeared some distance from the capsized boat. “Look at the idiot! See him throw up his hands! Stone and Crane are shouting to us. Great marvels! He can’t swim!”

Already, with a sweep of his paddle, Grant had pointed the canoe toward the overturned boat and the youth who, splashing wildly only a short distance from it, seemed quite unable to reach and grasp it for support.

“Pull, Springer – pull for all you’re worth!” he commanded.

The driving blast of wind aided in speeding them toward the imperiled fellow.

“If he gets hold of this canoe he’ll upset it!” palpitated Piper.

Simpson’s head disappeared from view and was not seen again for several moments, after which his frantic efforts shot his body above the surface halfway to the waist line. Gulping, gasping, terrified by the experience through which he was passing, the fellow turned his blanched face and appealing eyes toward the three boys who were now bearing down upon him.

Almost invariably persons who find themselves in deep water and cannot swim strive desperately to lift their bodies as high as possible and thus aid in their own undoing, and this was precisely what Jim Simpson did. Had he simply paddled gently with his hands and held his breath whenever his head went under, lacking in a rudimentary knowledge of swimming though he was, he might have kept afloat for some moments; by his tremendous struggles, however, he baffled himself and made it imperative that his would-be rescuers should reach him quickly.

“He’s gone – he’s gone again!” screamed Sleuth, as Grant once more slightly altered the course of the canoe.

“Keep down! Keep low in the canoe and sit steady!” commanded Rodney. Then, rising, he did a difficult thing to do under the most favorable circumstances; he dove headlong from the canoe without upsetting it. With three strong strokes beneath the water he reached Simpson, whose collar he grasped with one hand at the back of the neck. They rose together, the Texan holding the other off and striking out as well as he could for the capsized boat.

The excited boys watching from the point uttered a cheer. Then the rain swept over the lake in a tremendous blinding cloud, shutting from their view the canoe, its occupants, and the two fellows in the water.