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.
[Illustration: The stick slid over the jagged edges of the hole]
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.