THE HOME RUN
They were sweeping the nearer waters of the lake with the search-light
whose limited range did not reach the scene of the disaster. And they
were bellowing through the megaphone to the anxious rescue party on the
raft that they could not pick out the spot; they were engrossed in these
futile activities when the search-light picked out something
else—something moving slowly, steadily, toward shore. A face, ghastly
white in the surrounding blackness, was pictured by the long, groping
column of dusky light. Forward it moved toward the shore, slowly,
steadily.
A slight adjustment of the long column revealed a less ghastly picture,
a picture the meaning of which scouts knew well enough. Bobbing
alongside the advancing face was a head which seemed to have no
connection with the nearby countenance. But the boys of Temple Camp
could see in their minds’ eyes what was not visible under the water.
_That bobbing head was being held above the surface_; the unseen body to
which it belonged rested upon the buoyant support of an outstretched
arm. Nothing held this unconscious form, it just rested easily upon the
arm and moved along. There was something uncanny about it; stark and
appalling, it seemed to be riding on a spring.
The scouts had read about this sort of thing, this use of a single
upholding human arm. But none of them had ever successfully practised
it. Now in the darkness of that wild night they saw the feat
demonstrated, saw an apparently lifeless form, a dead weight, given the
little balance of support to keep it up and guide it through the rough
water. And the swimmer seemed hardly embarrassed by this load.
What the gaping crowd did not know was that the arm which acted as a
girder was torn and bleeding and throbbing with grievous pain. What they
did not know was that the same quiet, unobtrusive will that had caused
Wilfred Cowell to stand still in the night and let another escape with
the Emblem of the Single Eye, was supporting him now amid storm and
darting agony. No search-light could show that. For how could any
search-light penetrate such a nature as his?
In a fine impulse, eloquent of admiration, several of the boys waded out
chest deep and relieved the swimmer of his burden. That was how it
happened that the hero reeled shoreward through the shallow water quite
alone. With his torn and bleeding arm hanging at his side, he stumbled,
caught himself, and went staggering up upon the grass, then fell heavily
to the ground in a dead swoon. And so again, just as when he collapsed
before his own home in Bridgeboro, he was only half-conscious of the
clamorous voices speaking his nickname as he sank into oblivion on the
soft, wet grass.
They spoke it in tones aghast as they crowded about him, “_It’s
Wandering Willie._” Some of them had not lingered at the other center of
interest long enough to learn that it was the young doctor of camp whom
Wilfred had saved. Nor to inquire the whys and wherefores of the young
man’s unknown excursion in the storm. He was not dead, nor like to die,
and the trend of excited interest and curiosity was toward that
swelling, clamorous throng that closed in around the prostrate boy whom
they had carried into the shelter of the pavilion.
One boy, unscoutlike in his rough determination, elbowed and wriggled
his way through the crowd, and braving the frown of Doctor Anderson (who
fortunately was visiting camp) kneeled over the dripping, outstretched
form.
“Is—he—he alive?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the doctor quietly; “open a space here, you boys; let’s have
some air.”
But the boy persisted. “Is—will——”
“I think so, it depends,” said the doctor.
“Do—do you know me?” asked the boy, foolishly addressing the unconscious
form; “it’s Wig—just—if you’ll——”
Obedient to a new presence, as they had not been to the doctor, the
group fell away to let an aggressive, striding young fellow pass
through.
“You run along and help them get the stretcher for Doc, Wig,” said Tom
Slade; “move back, you fellows.”
He sat down on the edge of the wicker couch on which they had laid the
scout of no patrol while the scouts of all patrols lingered as near as
they dared. The doctor, busy with the mangled arm, was preoccupied to
the point of precluding questions. A scout came running with cotton and
bandages. Two others brought the stretcher from Doc’s sanctum, and stood
waiting.
Another boy, visibly pleased that his inspiration was serviceable,
handed a new croquet stake to the doctor. He had brought it and stood
waiting with it. He saw it roughly taken from him and twirled around in
a bandage above the elbow of the stricken boy’s arm.
Tom, helpless in the face of professional routine and efficiency, sat
quietly, and, there being nothing else for him to do, he stroked the
forehead of the unconscious boy, and pushed up the strands of saturated
hair, just as Wilfred had so often brushed the rebellious wavy locks up
from his forehead.
Suddenly the eyes opened—roving, staring. And in their aimless moving
they espied Tom.
“Eright?” a low, half-interested voice asked.
“Sure, you’re all right,” said Tom gently.
Then there was a pause.
“Right—orright?”
“Sure, Billy—be still. You’ll be all right.”
The eyes were fixed on Tom in a weak but steady look of inquiry. There
was a wistfulness in that barely conscious look.
“Why, sure, you’re all right,” laughed Tom.
“I don’t—I mean—not—I don’t mean that. I mean don’t—don’t mean will I
get well—all right. I mean will I do? Now will I do?”
Tom’s brimming eyes looked at him—oh, such a look.
“Yes, you’ll do, Billy.”
The eyes closed.
Then an interval of silence during which the doctor worked steadily,
unheedful of the gaping throng standing at a respectful distance. Tom
sat silently, watching him.
“He’s pretty weak,” the doctor said. “I don’t see how he did it; he’s
lost a lot of blood. Anybody connected with him up here? Just hold that
loose end—that’s right.”
“Only myself,” Tom said, his hope sinking at the ominous question. “I
found him, he’s mine. No, none of his people are up here. He has a
mother and sister. Had I better send for them?”
“I think it would be best,” said the doctor quietly.
Tom arose, his heart sinking. He thought of Wilfred, a lone figure in
the camp, wandering about, unheeded, and now perhaps dying far from his
own people. He blamed himself that he had brought Wilfred to camp.
“Shall I say—shall I just tell them to come up?”
“Hmm,” said the doctor, still busy, “that’s right, yes. He’s pretty weak
from the loss of blood.”
“Could I be of any use in any way?” Tom asked, hesitatingly.
“You mean you want to give your own blood?” the doctor asked bluntly.
“Yes, I do—I meant that.”
“Well, you’d better send for his folks anyway.”
“I’ll wire them,” Tom said.
It was strange to see Tom so dependent and obedient, he who always
breezed in here and there with his cheery, offhand manner of authority.
He seemed different from the scouts as they opened a way for him to pass
through. But one sturdy, fearless soul ventured to address him.
“Anyway, one thing, you picked a winner, that’s sure; gee whiz, you did
that, Tom. I ought to know because I picked lots of them myself. Gee
whiz, you picked a winner all right.”
Tom cast a kind of worried smile at Pee-wee as he hurried away. But it
was better than no smile at all.