DROWNED!
The next afternoon, Wednesday, baseball practice started off with a
dash that secretly delighted Payson’s heart. Outwardly, however, he
was as calm and untroubled as ever. Alf had confided Dan’s theory to
Millener, but the captain had let it go no further, and the team still
labored under the delusion that they were spiting the coach. At the
batting net, fellows who were scarcely known to hit the ball safely,
worked in a perfect frenzy of ambition and pounded the leather all
around the field. This put Reid, the substitute pitcher, on his mettle,
and a regular duel ensued between him and the eager batters.
Gerald and Harry Merrow, on their way to the boathouse, paused a while
behind the net and watched proceedings. One by one the players faced
Reid until he had made some sort of a hit; Millener, Colton, Loring,
Condit, Danforth, Durfee, Richards, and so on down the list of first
team men and substitutes. When Alf cracked out a long, low drive
that would have been good for three bases in a game, Gerald howled
with glee, and again, when Dan managed to send a hard, low one just
over Reid’s head, Gerald shouted “Good for you, Dan!” and didn’t at
all mind the amusement he created. When the players left the net and
trotted over to the diamond, Gerald and Harry continued on their way to
the river, discussing the nine and the chances of victory. Harry was
pessimistic.
“Broadwood’s got a crackajack of a team this year,” he said. “Look
at the way they licked Porter! And that fellow Herring, their best
pitcher, is a wonder. I saw him pitch last year.”
“Is he better than Colton?” asked Gerald. Harry frowned and hesitated.
“Well, he’s as good. But he isn’t the all-round player that Colton is.
Colton can bat, you know; he’s the best batter we’ve got.”
“Alf Loring’s good, too,” said Gerald jealously.
“You bet he is! He and Colton are both dandies! Oh, it’s going to be a
ripping game, all right. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. But, just the
same, I look to see Broadwood win, say about five to four, or something
like that.”
“I don’t believe she will,” answered Gerald.
“Want to bet?” asked Harry eagerly.
“I don’t bet, but--say, I’ll tell you what I will do, Harry. I’ve got
a dandy stamp collection; three big books; some of them cost a lot of
money. I’ve got almost all the real rare ones, too. Do you collect?”
“Yes, I used to. But I haven’t had any new ones lately. Why?”
“Well, if Broadwood wins I’ll give you my collection.”
“The--the whole thing?” asked Harry incredulously. Gerald nodded. Harry
thought a moment, and then asked suspiciously;
“And if we win, what do I give you?”
“Nothing. If you did it would be just the same as betting, and father
won’t let me bet. Is it a go?”
“Sure!” answered Harry. “Only--only it’s pretty one-sided, isn’t it? It
doesn’t seem just right to take the stamps, Gerald.”
“That’s all right. Besides, I don’t believe you’ll have a chance. We’re
going to win.”
“You wait and see,” said Harry. “How many stamps have you got?”
“I haven’t counted them lately,” replied Gerald carelessly. “Over two
thousand, though.” Harry whistled. “I guess it’s only fair, though, to
tell you that I--I’m tired of them. If you win I shan’t care much about
the stamps, I mean.”
“I shall,” laughed Harry. “I don’t really want Broadwood to win,
but--but, gee, I’d like to have those books!”
They lifted their canoe out, set it in the water and climbed into it.
“Where’ll we go?” asked Harry.
“Let’s go up to Flat Island, and then into Marsh Lake on the way back,”
answered Gerald. “There’s Dyer and Burgess up there in that blue canoe.
See ’em? Ready?”
They dug their paddles and headed upstream. There were a good many
canoes out and Gerald and Harry had one or two brisk encounters on the
way up. At Flat Island several canoes were pulled up onto the shore and
a number of fellows were lolling about in the shade of the willows.
They went on by the island for a quarter of a mile to where the river
narrows, and then turned and floated back with the tide. Harry had got
over his nervousness and no longer insisted on being close to shore.
“This is something like,” he said, settling comfortably down in the
stern, where, with just a touch of his paddle now and then he could
keep the canoe’s nose pointed right. And Gerald, laying his paddle
across his knees, agreed. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the river
never looked lovelier. It was pretty warm, but now and then a little
breeze crept across the marshland, waving the tall, lush grasses, and
brought relief. The river reflected the intense blue of the sky, the
willows and alders along the bank were vividly green, and to Gerald
came the fanciful thought that Nature was divided in its allegiance,
displaying equally the colors of Yardley and Broadwood.
“Just the same,” he muttered half aloud, with a glance at the sky, “the
blue’s on top!”
“Eh?” asked Harry sleepily.
To the left, over on the links, seven couples dotted the turf. Golf
enthusiasts these, so intent on following the little white spheres that
they had no thought for the temperature. Further along was the field,
sprinkled with the blue-and-gray-uniformed ball players. Occasionally,
when the breeze died away, the sharp crack of ball against bat reached
the occupants of the canoe. Presently the mouth of the tiny stream
which wound inward to Marsh Lake was reached, and the lads took up
their paddles again to battle with the sluggish current. The canoe was
headed in between the tall rushes, which in places almost met across
the little passage, and all their ingenuity was required to keep their
shallow craft from running aground on the bars and flats. It was very
hot in here, and swarms of blood-thirsty mosquitoes were lying in wait
for the adventurers.
“Who suggested coming in here?” asked Gerald, pausing in his paddling
to defend himself from the hungry horde.
“You did,” responded Harry. “Don’t you wish you hadn’t? I’m just a mass
of bites already.”
“Well, let’s get out of it,” said Gerald.
“Let’s keep on; it’s only a little ways more.”
Another turn of the winding stream and the bushes gave way and the
canoe floated on Marsh Lake, a good-sized sheet of water, set in a
wide, green sea of marsh grass and rushes, which extended for a good
half-mile to the westward, and perhaps half that distance north and
south. Now and then a clump of low bushes or a group of small willows
stood up above the surrounding flatness. Blackbirds and bobolinks and
sparrows held high carnival amidst the swaying reeds, frogs splashed
and challenged gruffly, and the hum of thousands of insects filled the
air. Into and out of the lake dozens of little streams made their way,
all so much alike that it was the custom to thrust a paddle into the
bank as one entered, so as to distinguish the outlet toward the river
from the other streams which meandered in meaningless fashion across
the marsh, twisting and doubling, and, in many cases, leading nowhere
at all. So Harry stuck his paddle down into the mud at the bottom of
the lake, near the margin, and left Gerald to propel the craft across
the unruffled water.
They went very quietly, for sometimes there were adventures awaiting
the visitor to Marsh Lake. It was a favorite place for ducks and
loons and snipe, and more than one heron had been surprised there.
But to-day they discovered nothing more remarkable than two big mud
turtles, which slipped into the water from the log upon which they had
been sunning themselves. A pair of kingfishers came winging across the
marsh, looking for supper, but the first glimpse of the canoe sent them
wheeling northward, scolding discordantly. Gerald paddled slowly around
the lake, fighting off the mosquitoes, which, if less troublesome here
than in the stream, were still annoying.
“Let’s go back,” he said finally. “There’s nothing here to-day.
Sometime I’m coming up here to catch a turtle.”
“A dip-net’s the thing for them,” said Harry knowingly. “I’ve got one
at home, and I’ll bring it along in the Fall.”
“I’ve heard you could catch them with a hook and a piece of raw meat,”
Gerald replied. “I’d like to try it some time. Where’s that paddle,
Harry?” Harry looked around.
“It ought to be over there,” he said finally, “but I don’t see it.”
“Neither do I. I thought, though, that--There it is; see? Gee, it’s
lucky we put it there! I’d never have gone out that way.”
“I would,” answered Harry. “The river’s toward the east, you know,
and--”
“And there are at least five outlets in that direction,” finished
Gerald sarcastically, as he sent the canoe across the pond to where the
paddle stuck out of the water.
“Stop paddling,” said Harry. “I can get it.”
He reached out and took hold of the paddle and gave it a tug.
“Come out of that,” he grunted.
“Wait till I push up nearer,” advised Gerald.
“Never mind; I can get it,” was the reply. Harry stood up gingerly in
the canoe, and gave a mighty tug at the paddle. It came up so quickly
that he lost his balance, the paddle flew over his head, and the canoe
rocked dangerously. Making a frantic effort to recover his balance,
Harry fell with one knee against the opposite edge of the craft, and in
the next moment both boys were in the water.
Gerald came up sputtering and laughing. “You’re a nice one!” he cried.
He had kept hold of his own paddle, but the one which had caused the
catastrophe was floating a good ten feet away, while the canoe, which
had promptly righted itself, was rocking sluggishly, half full of
water, just beyond reach. Gerald thought he could touch bottom, but
when he tried it, he found that in spite of the fact that he was hardly
a dozen feet from shore, he was still over his depth. Then he looked
for Harry. That youth was nowhere to be seen, and Gerald, with one hand
on the canoe, stared about him in perplexity and a growing uneasiness.
“Harry!” he called.
There was no answer. The surface of the pond was still and untroubled.
For an instant he thought that perhaps his companion had waded
ashore, and was hiding in the bushes and reeds. But there hadn’t
been time for that. With growing horror, Gerald realized that Harry
had not come to the surface after he had sunk; that he was down
there--somewhere--caught, perhaps, in the mud--drowning!
A wild desire for flight almost overpowered him. For a moment longer
he clung desperately to the canoe, white of face and with staring eyes
fixed in terror on the calm surface of the treacherous pond. Then, with
an inarticulate cry and an awful fear clutching at his heart, he tore
himself loose from the canoe and dove.
* * * * *
Baseball practice had been longer to-day, and a five-inning game with
the Second Nine had brought it to a close at a few minutes before
five. Up in the gymnasium there was a merry babel of voices, mingled
with the rushing of water in the shower baths. Dan had played at
third for a part of the time, and now, glowing from his work and the
subsequent shower, he was dressing himself leisurely and happily in the
locker-room, listening to the talk about him, and now and then throwing
in a word. The windows were open and the steam was writhing out into
the sunlight. Payson had taken his departure and the discussion of
the day’s work was free and untrammelled. To be sure, Andy Ryan was
still present, but every one knew that Andy never carried tales. And
so Lawrence, who played rightfield, and was in the First Class, wasn’t
mincing matters in his loud criticism of Payson. Millener was trying
to “call him down,” but every one was talking at once, and his efforts
were not very successful. The discussion was waxing vehement when the
swinging door at the foot of the stair was thrown open and an excited
youth stumbled in.
“Have you fellows heard the news?” he cried.
[Illustration: “‘Have you fellows heard the news?’ he cried.”]
The confusion ceased and all faces turned toward him.
“Young Pennimore and another fellow, Merrill, or something like that,
were drowned just now over in Marsh Lake!”