DIRE PERIL
With the instinct of a skilled swimmer, Lefty had drawn in a deep
lungful of air before he went under. It was that same instinct which,
on rising to the surface, made him thrust vigorously with arms and
legs toward the place where he had last seen Ogan. He was not in the
least troubled about himself. A moderately good swimmer, keeping his
head, would have no difficulty in reaching shore; and Lefty was more
than that. But the infielder probably would thrash about and struggle
fiercely, only to hasten the inevitable.
As his head shot up into the sunlight the southpaw brushed a straggling
lock of hair from his eyes, and stared eagerly downstream. Not a dozen
feet away the muddy water was suddenly cleft by a clutching hand,
followed swiftly by the distorted face of Al Ogan, eyes staring, mouth
gasping widely for precious air.
With a powerful lunge, Lefty flung himself forward. A few strokes
brought him beside the struggling man just in time to slide a firm
hand under his chin.
“Steady, Al!” he cried. “Take it easy, old man. You’re all right now.”
He scarcely expected to be obeyed, and he was not. Ogan was in the grip
of that paroxysm of madness which comes to every drowning person. He
knew only that out of the awful, despairing waste of instability had
come something solid, something which kept his mouth for a moment above
the loathsome, lapping, suffocating water. His impulse was to grasp it,
and grasp it he did with a surprising swiftness which caught Lefty,
looking though he was for such a move, off his guard.
Remembrance of the few succeeding minutes was never very clear to
Locke. The instant Ogan’s fingers closed over his wrist in the iron
grip of despair he knew his work was cut out for him. He recalled
jerking away with all his strength, and of going under in the process.
When he finally came to the surface with lungs fairly bursting, Ogan
was nowhere to be seen. Pausing only long enough to draw a deep breath,
the southpaw dived.
In diving he had nothing whatever to guide him, and it was sheer luck
that brought his outstretched hands against the body of the man he
sought. This time there seemed no movement. Ogan had evidently lapsed
into unconsciousness, and, catching him under the shoulders with one
arm, Lefty struck out for the surface.
He was beginning to grow exhausted from so much struggling. He was
assailed by grave doubts of his ability to get Ogan ashore. Then,
to his horror, just as they shot up into the blessed air, the limp
infielder turned unexpectedly in his arms, and fastened clutching
fingers about his throat.
The southpaw tore away the gripping hands, and took an uncertain stroke
or two out of reach. Almost as quickly he was back again. His head
reeled dizzily, and he could scarcely see, but to let his friend sink
was a thing impossible. Reaching out, he caught Ogan by the hair. Then
a sobbing breath of thankfulness passed his lips as he saw a strange
boat that was almost upon them.
It came swiftly on the current, threatening to run down the two
struggling in the water. Then it swerved, its progress was stayed
perceptibly, and a figure suddenly bent over the side, with arms
outstretched. Lefty was too much occupied with the now almost senseless
Ogan to glance at the stranger’s face. He held the infielder up in the
water until a pair of strong hands slid under the limp arms and began
to drag the dripping body into the boat. Then the pitcher reached for
the moving craft himself, caught the side near the stern, and clung
there, too weak to pull himself into the boat unaided.
A moment later a shadow blotted the sun from Lefty’s eyes. Glancing up,
he found himself staring into the face of Nelson Savage.
For a moment the southpaw had a weird feeling that he was seeing
visions. That the busher should be here was natural enough, but to find
him doing what this man had done seemed incredible. Then, as the fellow
dropped to his knees on the stern seat and reached out a helping hand,
Locke realized that the impossible was happening.
“Give us your fist,” the Westerner said briefly.
There was a straining of muscles in which Locke rendered what help he
could, and a moment later the pitcher was in the boat, staring dazedly
and still a little incredulously at the face of his rescuer.
“All right?” the latter questioned, stepping back to secure one of the
oars which was balanced precariously over the side.
Savage’s heavy brows met in a single straight line above the bridge
of his rather large nose, and there was an undercurrent of suppressed
anxiety in his voice, and an inflection which faintly stirred a chord
of memory in the southpaw’s mind.
“Sure!” Lefty answered mechanically, his eyes still searching the
other’s face. “Only a little winded, that’s all.”
A second later he forgot everything else in the remembrance of Ogan’s
condition. The infielder sprawled in the bottom of the boat, his eyes
closed. Without a word, Savage and Locke straightened him as best they
could, and began to work his arms vigorously. To their intense relief,
he responded almost at once; he was not unconscious, but utterly
exhausted. As soon as he realized this, Locke suggested that they make
for shore at once.
Savage agreed, and, each taking an oar, they headed for the bank from
which Lefty and Ogan had started, without trying to pull back to the
boathouse.
It was a curious, silent row. Neither man spoke, for, in truth, they
needed all their wind for the physical exertion of cutting across the
current. But all the time Lefty’s mind was busy trying to figure out
the subtle, but unmistakable, change which had come over the chap
beside him. He could not imagine the Savage of yesterday and the day
before acting as this man had done. He might, perhaps, have come to the
rescue of two drowning men, but certainly he would never have shown any
anxiety for their welfare once they had been dragged from the water.
There were other things, too, slight, but equally puzzling; but it was
not until they had reached the bank and lifted the still helpless Ogan
from the boat that the remembrance he had been striving for came to
Lefty in a flash.
That unpleasant, baleful glare had vanished from Savage’s eyes. They
were human now, almost attractive and winning――the eyes of the man he
had met and unaccountably liked at the station in that little, far-away
Jersey village of Belle View.