Chapter 14

THE BOY WHO COULDN'T SWIM

The usual January thaw carried away most of the snow and made things generally sloppy and unpleasant. But it was followed by another cold snap, which put a glassy surface on the lake and drew the boys thither in greater numbers than ever. Almost every afternoon as soon as school was out a crowd of scouts, with skates slung about their necks and hockey-sticks in hand, might have been seen hurrying along the turnpike. Those who owned wheels made use of them; the others rode "shanks' mare," skylarking as they went and hilariously seizing every chance of a lift that came along.

Nor were they all members of Troop Five by any means. Mr. Grimstone had needed very little persuasion to grant the privileges of the lake to Hillsgrove scouts generally, and many were the exciting games of hockey that enlivened the winter afternoons. More often than not the clear, cold ring of steel on ice, the grate of swiftly turning runners, the sharp crack of wood against wood, the excited shouts and yells of shrill young voices, resounded on the lake until the gathering twilight made it difficult to distinguish one swiftly moving figure from another.

From its rocky elevation the log-cabin overlooked the active scene, smoke rising from its hospitable chimney and the red glow of a blazing fire gleaming in the windows and winking through the often opened door. Here congregated those who were too indifferent or unskilful to indulge in hockey, while every now and then a player would dash in to thaw out. On Fridays there was pretty sure to be a crowd spending the night there, and then the odor of crisping bacon or broiling chops mingled with the fragrance of the pines; the laughter and joshing kept up throughout the evening, and from the gray farmhouse across the lake an old man, glimpsing the cheery yellow gleam, would chuckle to himself and rub his knotted hands softly together.

"Them boys are havin' a good time ag'in to-night," he would murmur. "Reckon I'll hev' to step over an' see 'em in the mornin'."

Whenever he appeared he was sure of a hearty welcome, for underneath that crustiness, caused by years of loneliness and narrow living, the scouts had found a spirit as young and simple and likable, almost, as a boy's. And the old man, reveling in this novel, pleasant intercourse, felt sometimes as if he were beginning life all over again.

In this wise the winter passed with its usual mingling of work and play. Coasting, hockey, snow hikes, and the like mixed healthfully with regular lessons, the bird-feeding, studying up for merit badges or first- or second-class tests, and other scout duties and activities. The skating, particularly, was unusually prolonged, and the first signs of March thaws met with general regret.

"Well, we can have one more good game, anyhow," remarked Frank Sanson, as they came out of school at noon. "Maybe it will be a little soft, but it will bear all right. Who's going out?"

There were a number of affirmative replies, though the general opinion seemed to be that the ice would be too sloppy to have much fun.

"I'm going to try it, anyhow," Frank declared, as he got on his wheel. "See you fellows out there."

"Don't take any chances before we come," Sherman Ward called after him. "Remember you can't swim."

Sanson sniffed and shouted back a hasty denial of the charge. Nevertheless, as he rode home for dinner he was glad the time was coming when no one would be able even to hint at his deficiencies in that line. When it came to taking care of themselves in the water the boys of Hillsgrove had been more or less handicapped in the past, and like a number of others, Frank could swim only a few strokes. This spring, however, with the lake at his disposal, he meant to devote every spare minute to gaining proficiency in the art, so that when the time came for their summer camp he need ask no odds from anybody.

He finished dinner early and, with skates and hockey-stick, rode briskly out to the lake. He expected to be the first one there, but on the wood-road he noticed the fresh tracks of another bicycle, and, reaching the cabin, he found Paul Trexler standing before the fireplace, in which a lively blaze was going.

"Gee! You couldn't have had much dinner," he remarked.

"I brought it with me," exclaimed the boy, who was a rather silent lad with an unusual capacity for enjoying his own company. "Anybody else coming out?"

"Sure; quite a bunch. Tried the ice yet?"

"No; I was just going to."

"Come ahead, then," urged Sanson, briskly. "It'll be about our last chance, and I don't want to lose any time."

They put on their skates at the edge of the lake and then tested the ice. It was noticeably soft, especially near the shore, but seemed firm enough. Farther out it was better, and as they skated up and down together Frank decided that they would have their game even if they did get pretty wet before it was over.

"Guess I'll go up a ways and sort of explore a little," said Trexler, presently. It was almost his first remark since leaving the cabin, and his tone did not indicate any special desire for company.

"All right," nodded Sanson. "Go ahead, only be careful about the ice. Mr. Grimstone says there are springs up there, and you know this is just the weather to make them dangerous." For a moment or two he stood watching the thin, stooping figure sweeping up the lake; then he smiled. "He's a queer duck," he murmured. "I should think he'd get awful tired of just playing around with himself that way. Wish the others would hurry up."

There were no signs of them, however, so he set himself to master an intricate figure he had been trying for several days past. Though there were no swimming facilities about the village, the annual flooding and freezing over of a flat meadow on the outskirts gave the fellows a very decent chance for skating, of which most of them had availed themselves. Sanson was one of the most proficient in the sport and enjoyed it thoroughly, especially now that the spacious lake gave them so much greater scope. His runners cut the ice in sweeping, graceful curves, and each time the momentum carried him nearer to the completion of the figure. Once or twice he noticed Trexler up toward the outlet, but it was in a vague sort of way, with a mind concentrated on his own evolutions.

"It's coming all right," he said aloud, pausing for a second to get his breath. "I've got the hang of it now. One more try and I can make it."

But Fate willed otherwise. As a matter of fact, Frank did not make that final effort which was to bring him success. He skated over to a clear spot on the ice and was swinging along to get up speed when a sudden panicky cry from up the lake made him stop and whirl around with a grind of steel runners that threw up a shower of icy particles.

Trexler was nowhere to be seen! For a fraction of a second Frank stared open-mouthed at the bare expanse of ice narrowing to the outlet, spanned by the old stone bridge. Then his sweeping glance paused at a dark, irregular patch in the glistening surface where something seemed to move feebly, and with a smothered cry he dug his skates into the ice and sped up the lake.

The distance was not really great, but to the frightened boy it seemed interminable. Almost at once he recognized the spot as open water in the midst of which Trexler's white face and clawing hands striving frantically for a hold on the treacherous, splintering edges stood out with horrible distinctness--Trexler, who could not swim a stroke!

Frank shuddered and dug his teeth into his under lip. For the matter of that, he himself was almost as helpless. With a sick, sinking pang it was borne in on him that the few halting strokes he had learned to take in smooth water last summer would be next to useless in an emergency like this. But he did not pause nor lessen his speed. He only knew that he could not hesitate, with that anguished face and those clutching hands to spur him on.

"Hold on a minute longer, Paul!" he cried, when he was within twenty feet of the hole. "Don't let go. I--I'll--get you out!"

Jerking at the lever of his skates, he kicked them off. The hockey-stick was still in his grasp, and, with this outstretched, he flung himself flat on the ice and wriggled forward. He paid no heed to the ominous cracking beneath him; there was no time for caution. Trexler had lost the slight grip he had had on the crumbling edges of the hole and was beating the water madly with his hands. His eyes, wild with despairing horror, were fixed on Frank with a desperate pleading that made the boy oblivious to everything save the vital need of haste.

With a sharp thrust of both feet, he pushed himself forward. The stick slid over the jagged edges of the hole and straight into the groping hands that closed over and hung upon it with the tenacious grip that knows no reason.

"Don't jerk it!" cried Sanson, sharply, as the ice creaked and cracked beneath him. "Just hold tight and let me draw you in."

But Trexler was too far gone to heed. There came another crack more ominous than the others. Even now, by letting go the stick, Frank could have escaped by rolling swiftly to one side or the other. He wanted to--desperately; but something within him stronger even than his fear clenched his fingers around the tape-wound hickory.

In another second the ice on which he lay gave with a crash and plunged him into the icy water.