STANLEY PAYS AN OLD SCORE
The first week in August, Jean, who had acted as treasurer of the tent
fund, announced that it had proved a solid financial success. Every tent
was full and booked up to the middle of September. The girls from the Art
School had persuaded two more batches to find the trail to Gilead, and
Billie's boy friends had turned their tents into headquarters for the club
they belonged to at school.
Jeff Saunders had used his car back and forth until Kit declared it made
her think of the fox, goose and bag of corn story.
"Jeff skips down to Richmond and takes back a couple of boys, lays off
himself for a couple of weeks, and lo, and behold, the car comes back with
three new ones, but I must say that they're the best behaved lot of boys I
ever saw. You'd hardly know they were around at all, except for the
twanging of ukuleles and guitars at night. And they certainly have kept us
supplied with fish ever since they came. I think it's done Dad a world of
good going away with them and kind of turning into a boy again. Stanley
said the other day they were going out fishing all night just as soon as
the bass were running."
Mrs. Gorham was setting the table for lunch and stopped at the last words,
one hand on her ample hip, and a look of anxiety in her eyes.
"They ain't calculatin' to fish over there beyond the dam, are they?
That's where the Gaskell boy come near drowning a year ago, when his boat
upset. It's just full of sunken snags for half a mile up the river above
the island."
"I guess that's where they're going just the same. Billie Ellis thinks
that he knows every foot of space on that upper lake and river just
because he's poled around on it for years with that old leaky,
flat-bottomed boat of his."
"Well, it's all right in the daytime," Mrs. Gorham rejoined, "but I
wouldn't give two cents for their safety fishing for bass on a dark night
among those snags."
It happened that the very next day Kit decided that it was high time to
garner in the crabapple crop and start making jelly. The best trees around
Greenacres were up on the old Cynthy Allen place. While the house had
burned down the year before, still Cynthy's fruit trees were famous all
over Gilead and Mr. Robbins had bought up the crop in advance from her. As
Cynthy said rather pathetically when the money was placed in her hand:
"Land, Jerry, I never thought those old fruit trees would bring me a
windfall just when I needed it most for taxes and such like."
It was only about a mile and a half to Cynthy's place from the crossroads,
but Shad had taken Princess down to Nantic after grain, and Kit had no
inclination to carry several pecks of crabapples in a sack along a dusty
road. Doris and Helen were out with Madame Ormond on a wood hike, and Jean
and her mother had been invited by Miss Emery to afternoon tea at her
tent, so that Kit was left to her own devices.
She stood on the veranda irresolutely, a couple of grain sacks thrown over
her shoulder, and suddenly the sparkle of the river through the trees in
the distance caught her eye. Certainly, that was the answer. She had not
had a chance the whole summer to go out in the boat and bask in idleness.
Always before this, Billie and she had chummed together through the summer
months, and she knew Little River all the way from the Fort Ned Falls at
the crossroads to where it slipped away in a shallow stream to the upper
hills.
There were several old rowboats lying bottom side up on the shore above
the falls. Kit selected the newest of the lot, a slender green boat that
Billie had lately acquired, although she had never tried rowing anything
but a flat-bottomed boat. It was the very first time also that she had
been out in a boat alone, but this fact never daunted Kit. She rowed up
the river with a firm level stroke, thoroughly enjoying herself and the
novelty of solitude. When she passed the island, Stanley was down on the
little stretch of beach cleaning a mess of fish for supper. She sent him a
hail across the water, and he held up a string of pickerel invitingly.
There had been a thunder-storm and a quick midsummer rain the early part
of the afternoon, and the campers had been quick to take advantage of the
fishing.
"I'll stop for them on my way back," Kit called. "Just going up after
crabapples at the Allen place." She had swerved the boat towards the bank
on the opposite side of the island, without looking behind her, when
suddenly Stanley sprang to his feet, and shouted across the water:
"To the left, Kit--hard to the left, do you hear!"
Instead of obeying without question, Kit turned her head to see what on
earth he was warning her against, and before she could stop herself the
rowboat was caught in an eddy that formed a miniature maelstrom at this
point, from a large sunken tree that fell nearly to midstream from the
shore. The frail rowboat overturned like a crumpled leaf. Kit was
bareheaded and it seemed to Stanley as long as he lived he would never
forget the sight of her upturned face, as it slipped down into the dark,
swirling water. She did not cry out, or even seem to make an attempt to
swim, it all happened so suddenly. There was only the horrible, warm
silence of the drowsy, midsummer landscape, and the dancing, pitching
rowboat, twirling around and around in circles.
It seemed an hour to him before he had plunged into the river, and swam
across to the spot where she had disappeared. The gripping horror was that
she hadn't come up at all. Even before he reached the spot where he had
seen her go under, Stanley dove and swam under water with his eyes open.
The river bottom was a mass of swaying vegetation and gnarled, sunken
roots of old trees. It seemed for the moment like outreaching fingers
clutching upward. He could see the black trunk of the tree, but there was
no sign of Kit until he was fairly upon her, and then he found her, her
dress and hair held fast on the bare branches.
Billie had been in the tent, getting the potatoes on for dinner, and
otherwise performing his duties as assistant camp cook. He had heard
Stanley's voice calling to some one, but had not taken the trouble to look
out until he failed to find a favorite pot on its accustomed hook.
Sticking his head out through the tent flap, he called down to the beach:
"Say, Stan, where's the granite pot with the long handle?" He listened for
an answer but none came, and after a second call he started to
investigate. The sudden complete disappearance of Stanley mystified him.
Their boat lay in its accustomed place on the shore with the oars beside
it, and there were the fish beside the cleaning board just as he had left
them a moment ago.
"Well, I'll be jiggered," muttered Billie when there came a cry across the
river--Stanley calling for help.
Billie could just see him swimming with one long overhand stroke, and
holding up something on his other shoulder, but following scout law, he
stopped not to meditate, but pushed the boat off to the rescue.
There was no sign of life, at least to Billie's fear-struck eyes, in the
limp, dripping figure which Stanley laid so tenderly in the bottom of the
boat.
"Quit shaking like that, Bill," he ordered in husky sternness. "You row to
the island as fast as you can."
On the way across he knelt beside her, applying first-aid methods, while
Billie rowed blindly, trying to choke back the dry sobs that would rise in
his throat, and the hot, boyish tears that blinded him every time he
looked at Kit's face, and thought of the Mother Bird. It did not seem as
if it could possibly be Kit, his dauntless, self-reliant pal, lying there
so white and still. When they reached the shore of the island, Stanley
carried her in his arms to his own cot.
"Hadn't I better go for help?" Billie asked.
"There isn't time," Stanley answered, shortly. "Warm those blankets, get
me the bottle of aromatic spirits of ammonia, and unlace her boots."
All the time he was talking, he worked over Kit as swiftly and tenderly as
any nurse, but it seemed hours to Billie before there came at last a
half-sobbing sigh from her lips, as the agonized lungs caught their first
breath of air, and she opened her eyes.
Neither Stanley nor Billie spoke as she stared from one to the other in
slow surprise, taking in the interior of the tent, and Stanley's dripping
clothing, and then she said, the most comical thing at such a time:
"Billie, did I lose the crabapples, or haven't I gotten them yet?"
"So that's what you were after," Billie cried wrathfully, "poking up the
river by yourself in that beastly little boat that turns over if you look
at it, and you can swim about as well as a tree-toad. If it hadn't been
for Stan here, you'd be absolutely drowned dead by now."
The color stole back into Kit's face. Perhaps if he had sympathized with
her, she might have broken down, but as it was, she looked up into
Stanley's eyes almost appealingly.
"I'm awfully sorry," she began, but Stanley stopped her with a laugh, as
he rolled her up tighter in another blanket.
"I'm the doctor here, now," he said, "and you'll have to mind. I guess if
I carry you, we can get you home somehow. The sooner you're in bed, the
better."
Mrs. Robbins and the girls were just coming along the road when they
beheld the startling procession coming up from the river bank, Stanley
carrying the blanketed figure and Billie bringing up the rear. Not the
buoyant, carefree Billie they were accustomed to see, a dejected, rather
limp-looking figure, with his eyes still full of horror.
"Why, mother," Jean exclaimed, "some one's been hurt." But it seemed as
though by some mysterious telepathy of love the news had already flashed
on Mrs. Robbins' mind, and she hurried down the road to meet them.
"She's all right," called Stanley, cheerily. "Just took a dip in the
river, Mrs. Robbins. If you'll go ahead, please, and get a bed ready, I'll
bring her up."
Kit's eyes were closed. He had told her to put her arms around his neck so
that he could carry her easier up the hill. Just as they got to the
veranda steps he said, under his breath:
"Are you all right, Kit?"
She nodded her head slowly, and opened her eyes.
"Thank you for getting me out," she whispered, with a shyness absolutely
new to the Kathleen of yore. "You don't know how I felt when I found
myself caught down there, and couldn't get away. I thought that was just
all."
"Bring her up-stairs, Stanley," called Jean. "Mother's telephoning to Dr.
Gallup, but I suppose the danger's all past now. Kit, you big goose, what
did you ever go in that boat alone for? The minute you're left alone,
you're always up to something. Just like the day when she had you locked
up in the corn-crib, Stanley."
Stanley smiled, a curious reminiscent smile, as he laid his burden down
on the white bed by the window.
Probably only Kit heard his answer, for Jean had sped after hot ginger
tea, and Helen and Doris were filling hot-water bottles, but Kit heard and
smiled as he said:
"God bless the corn-crib."