THE BOY WHO COULDN’T SWIM
Red Garrity slouched through the wide gates of the Wharton Smelter
Company and glanced indolently up and down the street. His application
for a job had just been turned down by the superintendent, but that did
not trouble him over much. He was used to it. In fact anything else
would have surprised him after the caustic comment which had followed
his last self determined vacation. He was a good worker—when he worked.
But his habit of taking days off whenever he felt in the mood did not
commend him to many employers of labor.
“Bum outfit to work for, anyhow,” he yawned, feeling in his pocket for a
cigarette.
He neither found one nor the means of purchasing a fresh supply, and for
the first time he looked annoyed. He would certainly have to land a job
to-morrow and get some kale, he thought, as he strolled up the street
toward Shrimp McGowan’s abode. He decided to try a certain wood working
concern where he was little known, and dismissed the subject from his
mind.
Shrimp was at home and responded to his yodel. As he slouched down the
steps, yawning and blinking in the bright sunlight, a look of contempt
came into Garrity’s eyes.
“Watcher been doing?” he demanded. “Sleeping?”
McGowan gaped again and nodded. “Nothing else to do,” he drawled.
Garrity sniffed scornfully and stifled a longing for Chick Conners, to
whom he had not spoken for weeks. Whatever failings the latter youth
might have, at least he had always been up and doing and ready for
excursions of any sort Red might suggest.
“Well, there’s something doing now,” the latter remarked briefly. “We’re
going out on the river road.”
Shrimp showed no signs of delight at the prospect, but after a weak
protest he yielded—as he always did. He could not understand Red’s
partiality for these country walks. It never occurred to him that the
woods and fields and river could hold a subtle charm for this
domineering boy who constantly belittled them in words and talked
boastingly and regretfully of the lights and bustle and crowded
excitements of the city. Indeed, Garrity had never really admitted as
much even to himself, and in the old days he and Chick had always been
at odds regarding the relative merits of town and country.
The road they took followed the windings of the Monhegan River. Overhead
the sky was cloudless. The air was warm and mellow, yet with a tonic
freshness in it which stirred the blood. The trees were beginning to
turn, and their reds and yellows contrasted strongly with the dark bulk
of pine and hemlock. Across the distant hills lay a faint, mellow Autumn
haze.
It was a day to thrill any boy, and Garrity was perfectly conscious of
its charm. As usual, however, he growled and grumbled at the dullness of
the country, and talked longingly of his beloved Bowery, but somehow
Shrimp’s slavish agreement failed to give him pleasure.
They threw stones at birds and squirrels, tossed rocks into the river
and slashed at trees and bushes with destructive knives. They strolled
erratically, visiting several orchards on the way, and finally reached
the point where the stream, narrowing between rocky banks, flowed deep
and swift toward a picturesque waterfall which made a favorite spot for
picnicers and campers. Here they sat down in the shade of the hemlocks
to eat their spoils.
“Funny you never came out with the bunch to swim,” remarked McGowan
after an interval of silent munching. “I s’pose you’re a wonder at it,”
he added with a touch of spiteful sarcasm that was characteristic.
For a second the ever-ready Garrity hesitated, his eyes fixed on the
rushing water six feet below the steep bank.
“I ain’t any wonder, but I’m good enough,” he boasted. “After swimming
in the East River there ain’t any particular fun splashing around in
this dump. Where do you go in? Right here?”
“Gee, no! It’s too darn swift and rocky. There’s a nice pool below the
falls, about a mile down. Anybody’d be a nut to try to here.”
“Huh!” grunted Garrity. “I guess I could take care of myself all right.
Say! Looka that squirrel over there. Want to see me bean him?”
He sprang up and reached hastily for a loose stone lying on the very
edge of the steep bank. For most of the way this was solid rock, but
just here there happened to be a treacherous patch of moss-grown earth.
Red’s eyes were fixed on the inquisitive little animal perched on the
opposite bank, and he stepped rather closer to the edge than he
intended. The next instant he felt a sickening give beneath his feet and
made a wild, panicky effort to regain his balance. It failed. Clawing
desperately at the smooth surface of the bank, he felt himself plunging
down the deep incline, heard a smothered cry from Shrimp, and struck the
water with a tremendous splash.
It seemed icy cold, and Red was smitten instantly by a keen despairing
horror. In spite of his recent boasting, he had never ventured into the
East River, or any other. All he knew of swimming was a few primitive
strokes learned in one visit to a Y. M. C. A. pool which had never been
repeated. Even those were forgotten during that smothering, choking
immersion. When he finally came to the surface he struck out wildly,
beating the water blindly and ineffectually with his hands. Already he
had swept far past the spot where he had fallen in. Shrimp was nowhere
to be seen. There was no one in sight—nothing save the cruel rocky banks
and the blurred shadows of the hemlocks past which he was tossed
helplessly.
In those awful moments which seemed like hours, a swift procession of
vivid, fantastic pictures whirled through Red’s despairing brain. Then
his head went under again and a moment later, dazed and half senseless,
he felt himself driven against something hard and solid at which he
clutched with all the strength and energy of desperation.
It was a boulder jutting up in midstream. For a moment Red’s progress
was stayed, but he knew that it was only the briefest respite. The
swirling current tugged at his legs and body; his numbed fingers slipped
and slid across the smooth, waterworn surface. He thought of the fall
below with its torrent of water thundering down to that bed of sharp
pointed, fantastic rocks, and a gurgling, choking cry of horror and
despair burst from his blue lips.