"MY BRAVE LITTLE GIRL!"
THE Mortons had been talking all summer about having a family picnic,
but there had been so many things to do every day for every one of the
household that there never had seemed to be any opportunity. Now,
however, all the chief events of the season were out of the way and once
more their thoughts turned to a day out of the grounds.
"Let's go to Barcelona," suggested Roger a day or two after the circus.
"What's Barcelona?" questioned Ethel Brown.
"Don't you remember Grandmother told us about the fishing village on
Lake Erie when we were coming over on the trolley?"
"Helen remembers that because there is some history about it," laughed
Ethel. "I know she'll vote for Barcelona."
"I would--I'm crazy to see it--only it seems as if we ought to wait for
Uncle Richard to come so that he can go with us."
Ethel Blue's eyes beamed affectionately at her cousin.
"He would like it, wouldn't he?" she said, smiling back.
"Let's go to Panama Rocks, instead," suggested Ethel Brown.
"What are Panama Rocks?" inquired Mrs. Morton.
"The strangest collection of rocks you ever saw, all jumbled together
and cleft into miniature canyons. They're about ten miles from here."
"Oh, Daddy would _love_ to see those," cried Ethel Blue so anxiously
that no one could help laughing.
"Don't be worried, my dear. We'll save all the very nicest picnics for
your father," decided Mr. Emerson. "We'll just go across the lake.
There's a place over there where we can make a fire without getting into
trouble, and we can have a hot luncheon and take a swim and have a good
time even if we aren't out of sight of the Miller Bell Tower."
Ethel Blue's face brightened.
"How do we get there?" she asked.
"By motor boat."
"Then can't we trail a rowboat so Roger can give me a lesson in rowing?
I shall be ashamed to tell Daddy that I haven't learned all summer."
"Good work," cried Roger. "I'll hitch a light one on behind and I'll
guarantee that before you come back you'll know all you need to to pull
it. You won't need anything afterwards except practice."
"And perhaps a little cold cream," commented Helen drily.
It was the following Wednesday before a time could be found that would
interfere with no one's plans. On that morning the entire Morton-Emerson
family, including Mary, boarded the launch, engineered by Jo Sampson,
whose employers, the Springers, had been called home before the season
ended. It did not take long to speed across to the other side of the
lake and the party was soon near enough to the shore to recognize
objects at which they had been looking all summer from a distance.
"Those trees aren't near the farmhouse at all! I thought they were right
side of it!"
"The trees in the orchard are full grown. They seem like mere babies
from the other shore!"
"And the barn is a long way from the house! Well, well!"
It was a glorious day with a breeze that made it no burden to carry the
baskets up the slope to the shelter where the materials for making a
fire were awaiting them. Jo and Roger arranged everything in places
convenient for the cooks and then Jo went to the farmhouse to see if he
could find fresh butter and sweet apples. Grandfather and Grandmother
strolled off on a botanizing trip; Mary, who was to have a holiday from
any kitchen duties, wandered into the woods with Helen and Dicky.
"Here's a good opportunity for you to give the Ethels their rowing
lesson, Roger," suggested Mrs. Morton. "Teach them the main points
before luncheon and perhaps they can do a little practicing in the
afternoon."
"But you'll be all alone here," objected Roger.
"I shall be glad to be quiet here for a while. It won't be for long;
some one is sure to come back in a few minutes."
So Roger and the girls went to the water's edge and the girls stood on
the narrow beach while Roger untied the rowboat from the stern of the
motor-boat and ran it up on the shore.
"You must learn to get in without being helped," he insisted, "because
you'll have to do it lots of times when there isn't any one around to
give you a hand. The unbreakable rule is, _Step in the middle of the
boat_. If you step on the side you're going to tip it and then you'll
have a picnic sure enough and perhaps two drowned pic-a-_ninnies_."
"Pic-a-nothing!" retorted Ethel Brown. "We don't care if we do upset. We
can swim."
"Clothes and shoes and all? I wouldn't risk it just yet if I were you.
Now, then, right in the middle. That's it. Ethel Brown on the seat
nearest the stern and Ethel Blue on the other."
Roger pushed off with a mighty shove and crept carefully down the boat,
steadying himself by a hand on each girl's shoulder as he passed. He
seated himself in the stern.
"Which way are you going, goose?" he inquired fraternally of Ethel
Brown. "Sit facing me. It's a funny thing a sailor's daughter doesn't
know that."
"Now, Roger, if you're going to tease I'll get some one else to teach
me."
"I won't tease you. Don't stand up to turn around; when you make a
mistake like that, squirm around on your seat. Always keep as nearly as
possible in the center of the boat. What you want to remember is never
to give the boat a chance to tip."
"There are only two oars here."
"One oar apiece is enough to begin with. Put yours out on the left side
of the boat, looking forward, Ethel Brown. That's the port side. Look
out!" for Ethel Brown thrust out her oar with a circular sweep that
would have given Roger a smart blow on the ear if he had not ducked with
great agility.
"Put yours out on the starboard side, Ethel Blue," he went on when he
recovered himself. "That's the right hand side as you face the direction
you are going. Secretary Daniels has changed 'port' and 'starboard' in
the navy to 'left' and 'right,' but you might as well learn the old
terms."
"Starboard, right; port, left; starboard, right; port, left," repeated
the Ethels in chorus, as Ethel Blue brought her oar into place by
raising it straight in the air, a movement which brought a "Good" from
Roger.
"Ethel Brown is stroke."
"Why is she?" demanded Ethel Blue.
"Because she happens to sit nearest the stern where all the other
oarsmen--meaning you--can see her. The stroke oar sets the stroke for
the other rowers."
"When I go fast you must go fast, Ethel Blue."
"You can't go too fast for me," returned Ethel Blue smartly. "Have I got
a name?"
"You're the bow oar. Now, then, ladies, pay attention to me. Do you see
that piece of wood fitting in notches nailed across the floor of the
boat? That is called a stretcher and you brace your feet against it."
"Perhaps you can, but I can hardly reach it with my toes."
"Move it up to the closest notch, then. That's the idea. Now put one
hand on the handle of your oar and the other hand a few inches away from
it on the thick part."
"So?"
"So. You're ready now to begin to row. Push your arms forward as far as
they will go and let your body go forward, too. That gives you a longer
reach and a purchase on the pull back, you see. Bear down a little on
the oar, enough to raise it just above the water. When you get the hang
of this you can learn how to turn the blade flat so as not to catch the
wind or choppy waves. That's called 'feathering'; but we won't try that
now."
"When I push the handle of my oar forward the blade goes backward," said
Ethel Blue.
"Correct! Observant young woman! When you've pushed it as far as you
can, let it go into the water just enough to cover it--no, don't plunge
it way in, Ethel Blue! Don't you see you can't pull it if you have such
a mass of water resisting you? Get your oar under water, Ethel Brown. If
you don't catch the water at all you 'catch a crab'--just so," he
chuckled as Ethel Brown gave her oar a vigorous pull through empty air
and fell backward off the seat. "Hurt yourself, old girl? Here, grab
root," and he extended a helping hand.
"Get these few motions right and you have the whole groundwork of
rowing," went on Roger. "Forward, dip, pull, lift; forward, dip, pull,
lift; forward, dip, pull, lift. Keep that up and you have the thing
done. One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four."
The new crew pulled vigorously for some distance until Roger commanded a
rest.
"Pull your oar in way across the boat and push it down until the handle
catches in the ribs of the opposite side," he directed, "or turn the
blade toward the bow and run the handle under the seat before you. Then
it won't slip out of the rowlock and sail off, leaving you to wait until
somebody happens along to pick you up. You might have to wait some
time."
"How are we going to turn round?" Ethel Brown asked when they were
rested.
"Pull one oar and the boat will turn away from the side of that oar. You
pull, Ethel Blue. See it turn?"
"It's mighty slow work," puffed Ethel Blue.
"And a huge big circle you're making," laughed Roger. "Ethel Brown can
help you by backing water."
"How do I do that?"
"It's the exact opposite of regular pulling. That is, dip your oar into
the water first and then push your arms and body forward. Do you see?
That makes the boat go stern first instead of bow first. Here's your
count; dip, push, lift, pull; dip, push, lift, pull."
The two girls tried it together and the boat soon was going backward as
fast as they had previously made it go forward.
"Now we'll try this turning around business again," directed Roger.
"Ethel Blue will row the regular way; that will turn the boat in a wide
circle as we saw. Ethel Brown will back water at the same time. That
will make the boat turn a much smaller circle, and in a minute we'll lay
our course for the shore. Ready? One, two, three, four; one, two, three,
four. Now stop backing water, Ethel Brown, and row ahead. One, two,
three, four," counted Roger patiently until the bow grated on the
pebbles.
"That's enough for to-day," he decided. "You mustn't get so tired out
that you won't want to have another go at it to-morrow. Remember, step
in the middle of the boat and way out over the side. There you are," and
he walked away toward the grove of trees where he had left his mother,
whistling loudly and followed by the Ethels' cheerful "Thank you."
"It makes you hungry," commented Ethel Brown. "I believe I'll go and see
if there are any signs of luncheon."
"I'll be there in a little while. I think I'll rest under that tree over
there for a few minutes."
Ethel Blue was more tired than she realized, and, when she had made
herself comfortable, curled up under an oak that was separated from the
landing by a narrow point of land and some tall sedges, she fell sound
asleep.
It was perhaps half an hour later that she roused sharply at some sound
that pierced her dreams. As she came to herself another scream brought
her to her feet.
"Dicky!" she gasped. "Where?"
She ran toward the landing, but there was no sign of him. The sound had
seemed nearer to her tree she thought as she dashed back to her napping
spot, but she had been so sleepy that she could not tell whether it came
from the bushes behind her or from the beach.
The beach? The water? Was Dicky in the water? She flew to the water's
edge and strained out over the tiny waves that lapped gently in from a
steamer that had gone down the lake five minutes before.
There it was again--that scream. And there was Dicky's yellow head
bobbing up for an instant and there was his hand thrown into the air.
In a second Ethel had slipped off her skirt and her shoes and was
running into the water in her bloomers. It could not be very deep where
Dicky was, just beyond the tip of the point. The sedge grass must have
thrown him down when he started to wade. How it happened flashed into
Ethel's mind as clearly as if she had seen it and all the time she was
wading out as fast as she could go. Even now it was only a trifle above
her knees; if Dicky could only get his footing he would be all
right--and as she thought it, her own feet slipped from under her and
she fell down a steep under-water bank sloping sharply away from the
point.
This was the reason then. But though startled she was cool and fell at
once into an easy swimming stroke. Her middy blouse hampered her but not
seriously. It needed only a few strokes to reach the eddy made by
Dicky's struggle. She could see him clearly and she seized him by the
back of his rompers. He made no resistance, poor little man. All the
struggle had gone out of him when she lifted him to the surface.
The point was nearer than the beach and a few strokes brought her to it
with her limp burden. The child was a slender little chap but he was a
heavy armful for a girl of thirteen and Ethel tugged herself out of
breath before she brought him high up on dry land.
"What was the first thing Roger said?" she asked herself, and instantly
remembered that she must turn Dicky on to his face to let the water run
out of his throat. She bent his limp arm under his forehead and then
left him for a second while she ran for her skirt to roll up under his
chest. As she ran she tried to scream, but only a faint squeak came from
her lips.
As she flew back she rolled the skirt into a bundle. The child still
showed no signs of breathing and she copied Roger's next move on that
long ago day when she had been his subject. Thrusting the roll under
Dicky's chest to raise his body from the ground and then kneeling beside
him she pulled him on to his side and then let him fall forward again on
to his face, counting "one, two, three, four," slowly for each motion.
Her arms ached cruelly as she tugged and tugged again at Dicky's little
rolling body. Wouldn't anybody ever come? Over and over she tried to
scream, but she had only breath enough to keep on pulling. She was
counting "One, two, three, four," silently now.
At last, at last, came a flicker of Dicky's eyelid and a whimper from
his mouth. Ethel worked on harder and harder. Dicky grew heavier and
heavier, but she saw dimly through her own half-shut eyes that he was
opening his and that his face was puckering for one of the yells that
only Dicky Morton could give.
"You let me alone, Ethel Blue," he whispered savagely, and then she lost
sight of the water and the sedge grass and her weary arms fell at her
sides.
When she opened her eyes again she found a heavy coat thrown around her
and a face that she had not seen for a very long time, smiling down into
hers--a face that she never forgot, the face that flashed before her
every night when she said her prayers.
"My little girl!" Captain Morton was saying soothingly as he rocked her
in his arms; "my brave little girl!"
His _brave_ little girl!
"Dicky?" Ethel murmured, looking up at her father.
"He's all right, dear. Aunt Marion has taken him to the fire."
Then Ethel leaned her face against her father's shoulder and lay without
stirring, utterly content.