A CRY FROM THE DARKNESS
Within a few seconds after McGovern felt the water about his ankles it
touched his knees. He was still able to make progress, and with the
same despairing desperation as before, struggled onward.
At the next step he went to his waist, and fell with a splash.
“I’m drowning!” he gasped; but fortunately for him he had plunged into
a small hollow, out of which he was swept the next moment, and, with
no effort on his part, flung upon his feet.
The roar was overpowering. It seemed as if he were in the appalling
swirl of Niagara, with the raging waters all around him clamoring for
his life. He grasped a limb which brushed his face, and the next step
showed that he had struck higher ground.
But the torrent was ascending faster than he. It was gaining in spite
of all he could do, but hope was not yet dead. Another step and the
water was below his waist, and he was able to make progress with the
help of his hands. When he lifted one foot it was swept to one side,
and only by throwing his full weight upon it was he able to sustain
himself.
He had now reached a point where the trees were not so near together.
While this enabled him to see something of his surroundings, it gave
the sweeping volume greater power, and he was in despair again.
But the dim light of the moon showed that at that moment the boundary
of the current was only a few paces beyond him. Could he pass that
intervening distance before it further expanded he would be safe.
Rousing his flagging energies he fought on, cheered by the view of a
figure on the margin, which had evidently caught sight of him.
“A little farther and you will be all right!” shouted the stranger,
stepping into the torrent and extending his hand.
“I can’t do it!” moaned McGovern, struggling on, but gaining no faster
than the terrible enemy against which he was fighting.
“Yes, you will! don’t give up! take my hand!”
McGovern reached out, but he was short of grasping the friendly help.
Then the brave friend stepped into the rushing torrent at the risk of
his own life, and, griping the cold hand, exerted himself with the
power of desperation, and dragged the helpless youth into the shallow
margin.
“Don’t stop!” he shouted, still pulling him forward; “we are not yet
out of danger!”
Helped by the stranger who had appeared so opportunely, the two
splashed through the flood, which seemed striving to prevent their
escape, and would drag them down in spite of themselves.
But the rescuer was cool-headed, strong, and brave, and he kept the
weak McGovern going with a speed that threatened to fling him
prostrate in spite of himself.
The ground rose more sharply than before. A few more hurried steps and
their feet touched dry land. Still a few paces farther and they were
saved.
The torrent might roar and rage, but it could not seize them. They had
eluded its wrath, like the hunter who leaps aside from the bound of
the tiger.
McGovern stood for a minute panting, limp, and so exhausted that he
could hardly keep his feet. His companion did not speak, but kept his
place beside him, curiously gazing into his countenance, and waiting
until he should fully recover before addressing him.
The youth speedily regained his self-command, and for the first time
looked in his rescuer’s face. They were now beyond the shadow of the
trees, and could discern each other’s features quite distinctly in the
favoring moonlight.
“Well!” he exclaimed, “I think you and I have met before.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if we had,” was the reply; “you tried to
destroy my bicycle last night.”
“And you saved me from drowning in the mill-pond.”
“I believe I gave you a little help in that way.”
“And now you have saved my life again.”
“I am glad I was able to do something for you, for you seemed to be in
a bad way.”
“I should think I was! If you had been a minute later it would have
been the last of Jim McGovern, and I tell you, Dick Halliard, he was
in no shape to die.”
No person escaping death by such a close call could throw off at once
the moral effect of his rescue. The bad youth was humbled, frightened,
and repentant. He was standing in the presence of him who had twice
been the instrument of saving his life in a brief space of time, and
that, too, after McGovern had tried to do him an injury.
“I don’t know whether you can forgive me,” he said, in the meekest of
tones, “but I beg your pardon all the same.”
“I have no feeling against you,” replied Dick, “and though you sought
to do me an injury, you inflicted the most on yourself; but,” added
the young hero, starting up, “where are Bob Budd and Tom Wagstaff?”
“Heaven only knows! They must be drowned,” replied McGovern, glancing
at the raging waters so near him with a shudder, as if he still feared
they would reach and sweep him away.
“Where did you leave them? How did you become separated?”
“We were in our tent when we heard the waters coming. We felt we
couldn’t help each other, and all made a break, some in one direction
and some another. They must have been drowned, just as I would have
been but for you.”
But what could he do to help them? He was standing as near to the
torrent as he dare. It had already submerged the spot where the tent
had been erected to the depth of twenty feet at least. Bob and Tom
could not have stayed there had they wished, nor was there any means
of reaching them.
“I wish I could do something,” said Dick, as if talking with himself,
“but I see no way.”
“There is none,” added McGovern, who was speedily recovering from the
ordeal through which he had passed, “but it is too bad; I would do
anything I could for poor Bob and Tom.”
It seemed hopeless indeed, but Dick could not stand idle, knowing that
others near him might be in most imminent need of help.
“If they are alive, which I don’t believe,” said McGovern, “they must
have drifted below us by this time.”
“I agree with you,” replied Dick, moving slowly along the margin of
the torrent, which, on account of the unevenness of the ground,
encroached at times and compelled them to retreat for a brief space;
“I should think if they were alive they would call for help.”
“Did you hear _me_?” asked McGovern, looking round in the face of
his companion.
“Yes, though I happened to be quite near when the flood came, and had
to scramble myself to get out of the way—”
“Hark!” interrupted McGovern, “that was a voice!”
“So it was, and it is below us!”
As he spoke he broke into a run, with the larger youth at his heels.
They had caught a cry, but it was so smothered and brief that it was
impossible to tell the point whence it came, except that it was below
them.
“Help! help! for the love of Hiven, help!”
“That’s the voice of Terry Hurley,” said Dick, who recalled that the
Irishman lived with his family a short distance away, and in the path
of the flood. In the whirl of events young Halliard had forgotten this
man and his wife and their two little girls.
But that cry showed they were in imminent extremity, and possibly aid
might reach them in time. McGovern, since his own rescue, was as
anxious as the brave Dick to extend assistance to whomsoever were in
peril.
The calamity had come with such awful suddenness that not the least
precautionary step could be taken. It was too early for neighbors to
arrive, but all Piketon and the vicinity would be on the spot in the
course of a few hours.
A brief run brought the boys in sight of the imperiled family. The
humble home of Terry Hurley did not stand in the centre of the valley,
like the tent of the Piketon Rangers, but well up to one side. Thus it
escaped the full force of the current, which, however, was violent
enough to fill the lower story in a twinkling, and threaten to carry
the structure from its foundations.
The two little girls, Maggie and Katie, had just said their prayers at
their bedside in the upper story, and Terry was in the act of lighting
his pipe when the shock came. The husband and wife might have escaped
by dashing out of the door and fleeing, but neither thought for an
instant of doing so. Both would have preferred to perish rather than
abandon the innocent ones above them.
Calling to his wife to follow, Terry bounded up a few steps and dashed
to the bedside. At the same instant that he seized one in his arms,
his wife caught up the younger.
“Whither shall we go, Terry?” asked the distracted mother, starting to
descend the stairs.
“Not there! not there!” he called, “but to the roof!”
By standing on a chair the trap-door was easily reached and the
covering thrown back. Then he pushed Maggie through, warning her to
hold fast, and the rest would instantly join her.
Next little Katie was passed upward.
“Now,” said Terry, “I will jine the wee spalpeens and thin give ye a
lift, Delia.”
The Irishman was a powerful man, and the task thus far was of the
easiest character. He drew himself through the door on the roof, and
extending one brawny hand to his wife, was in the act of lifting her
after him, when a scream from Maggie caused him to loose his hold and
look round.
“What’s the matter wid ye, Maggie?” he asked.
“Kate has just rolled off the roof!” was the terrifying reply.