WHAT SAVED MIKE
Let us be just to all. I therefore make haste to say that when Kit
Woodford thus threw Mike Murphy into the Back River he did not doubt for
an instant that he was a swimmer, for whoever heard of a lusty youth
seventeen years old who could not take care of himself in water? Of
course there are such, but they are so few that they are a negligible
number.
Graff Miller was startled when he heard the splash, and turning his head
saw the lad disappear, but his belief was the same as his companion's,
and turning on more power, he shot beyond sight before the lad could come
to the surface.
Now I wish to say further that it is a fact within the knowledge of more
than one that a person who did not know how to swim has, upon being
precipitated into deep water, struck out like a master of the natatorial
art. A father standing on the shore of a lake in northern England saw a
boat upset when a hundred yards off and his little boy flung clear of the
support. The lad had never even tried to swim, but as he was going down
the parent shouted to him:
"If you don't come right to land, I'll whip you within an inch of your
life!"
And the little fellow swam to where the frantic parent awaited him.
Moreover, I once witnessed the same strange occurrence. I was not six
years old when I was waiting at the side of a deep pond, and watching my
brother, four years older, construct a raft, with which he had promised
to come over and take me a-sailing. He put a number of boards loosely
together, and using a shingle for a paddle, worked out from shore and
began making his way toward me, who was in high spirits over the promised
treat.
In the very middle of the pond, where the water was fully twenty feet
deep, the primitive raft began disintegrating. The boards slipped apart,
so that those upon which my brother stood sank under his weight. Had he
been older and more sensible, he would have known that this need not mean
danger to him, for the smallest board was buoyant enough to hold his head
above water, and he could have worked his way to land with such support.
But the sight of the structure breaking apart threw him into a panic. He
made a frenzied leap as far out as he could, came up instantly, blew the
water from his mouth and swam so easily to where I was standing that I
never dreamed he was in peril. I should have said that never before had
he tried to swim.
The explanation of what seems unaccountable is simple. Now and then it
happens that when a sudden demand is made upon a person to save his life
by swimming he instinctively does the right thing. He adjusts his body
correctly, and uses his legs and arms properly--his action being exactly
like those of a bullfrog when he starts on a voyage to the other side of
the spring where he makes his home.
This thing does not often occur, but, as I have said, it does now and
then. Let me beg you never to make the experiment unless it is forced
upon you, for I dread what the result would be.
You have already guessed that this is what took place with Mike Murphy. I
cannot think of a more startling awaking than that of a sleeping person
who is flung into a deep stream of very cold water. Mike's momentum took
him several feet below the surface, but he quickly rose again, shook the
water from his eyes, blew it out of his mouth, and then swam straight for
land with the skill that you would show in a similar situation. Even in
taking the right direction he was providentially guided, for at first the
dense fog shut everything from sight, but after a few strokes, he saw the
dim outlines of the trees, and never stopped the vigorous swimming until
he reached up, grasped an overhanging limb of a near-by tree and felt his
feet touch bottom.
And then he was so overcome by what had taken place and it was so beyond
his comprehension that he believed it was a miracle. Standing on the bank
in his dripping clothing, he was mute for a full minute. Then he sank on
his knees and looking reverently upward said:
"I thank Thee, my Heavenly Father, for saving me life when I didn't
desarve it. Why Ye took the trouble is beyond me, but I niver can thank
Thee enough. I'm going to try me bist to be more desarving of Yer
kindness, and now if it's all the same to Yer blissed silf, plaise give
me a chance at that spalpeen that treated me as he did."
From down the river came the sound of the _Deerfoot's_ exhaust, growing
fainter as the boat sped on its way. The hoarse blast of a steamer's
whistle shuddered through the mist, but the lad saw nothing of either
craft. It was fog, fog on every hand.
He could not straighten out in his mind all that had taken place. More
than one phase of the occurrences was beyond explanation. Overcoming in a
degree the awe he felt for what had occurred in his own person, he
thought:
"If the Captain and second mate didn't know I couldn't swim, I'd belave
it was them that dropped me overboard by way of a joke, as the Barry
brithers explained to the Judge was their raison for hanging Black Mike.
It was thim spalpeens that wint fur the Captain whin he was journeying
through the woods. Begorra! but they are piling up a big debt fur me to
pay! But I'll sittle the same wid int'rist at siven thousand per cent.
"Where's Alvin and Chester all this time? Why didn't they git to the
_Deerfut_ before me instead of laving it fur them chaps? What does it all
maan, anyway?"
One of the singular coincidences of this series of adventures was that
the _Deerfoot_ in going down the Back River passed within a few rods of
the _Water Witch_ coming up. The noise of the respective engines
prevented either party hearing the other, and the fog would have veiled
them had the space between been considerably less.
Not knowing that the launch of their enemies had been moored anywhere
near, Mike did not look for it. Ignorant also of how far he had been
carried while asleep, he could not guess the distance to Beartown
landing. It might be half a mile or ten times as much. In truth, the
former distance was about right.
The pressing question was as to what he should do. His clothing even to
his cap was saturated. The morning was chilly, and he shivered. He must
find a place where he could obtain warmth until his garments dried. When
that was done he would decide upon the next step to take.
Had he suspected that he was so close to the landing, he would have
picked his way thither and then followed the road to the home of Mrs.
Friestone. It seemed to him that there must be a good many scattered
houses, any one of which would give him welcome. He remembered that a
broad highway runs the whole length of big Westport Island. Necessarily
this was parallel with the course of Back River. If he therefore turned
away from the latter and held a direct course, he must sooner or later
reach the road named, where he would be sure soon to receive hospitality.
No doubt you know from experience how hard it is to hold a straight
course when going through a wilderness, without landmarks to guide you
and ignorant also of the "signs" which are as plain as print to the
veteran hunter. The fog inclosed Mike on every hand, but his activity
imparted a pleasant warmth to his frame, which otherwise would not have
been felt, even though it was summer time.
He zigzagged sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left, but, on
the whole, held substantially to the right direction and gradually drew
near the dusty avenue which, once reached, would bring the end of his
discomforts. Good fortune stayed with him, for when he was beginning to
feel somewhat discouraged with his failure to free himself from the
dripping woods, he abruptly came upon a clearing, in the midst of which
stood a small house, surrounded by a well-tilled garden and several
smaller buildings. Chickens were scratching and picking at the earth, and
a big dog, fortunately restrained by a chain, scrambled out of his kennel
at sight of the stranger and barked and tugged to get at him.
Between him and Mike stretched a clothesline supported at intervals by
leaning props, and despite the fact that the humidity in the air must
have been close to ninety-nine degrees, a corpulent woman was hanging out
clothes. Two or three wooden pins were in her mouth, and every now and
then she reached up with one hand and squeezed the little conveniences
over the cord which supported the flapping clothes. She wore no bonnet or
hat, and the untied shoes evidently were an old pair belonging to her
husband.
Hearing the dog bark, she looked around to learn the cause. She saw a
freckle-faced youth in the act of doffing his cap and bowing.
"The top of the morning to yer ladyship, and would ye be willing to hang
me across yer line till me clothes be dried?"
The woman snatched the pins from between her teeth and stared at him. Her
face was broad, homely and good-natured.
"G'way now," she answered; "I don't hang up any clothes till the same is
_claan_. It will take a waak's washing to rinder ye fit. If I straddle ye
over the line wid yer faat and rid head hanging down and bumping
togither, ye'll cut a purty figger a-flapping in the wind."
Mike's laughter rang out. She was Irish like him and his heart warmed to
her.
"Begorra! I've met a leddy after me own heart. She's from the 'owld sod'
and it's not mesilf that is going to have me own way in gay conversation
wid the charming beauty."
True enough, the woman was his match and Mike was glad to learn it.