_In Which Ha-Ha Shallow is Foiled, Archie Armstrong Displays Swift
Cunning, of Which He is Well Aware, and Billy Topsail, Much to His
Surprise, and not Greatly to His Distaste, is Kissed by a Lady of
Poor Luck Barrens_
Another advance of the right foot; an increased depth of two inches; a
sudden, upward thrust of the water; a rolling stone: Billy Topsail
tottered--struggled for balance, like a man on a tight-rope, and caught
and held it; but in the wrenching effort his pack had shifted and
disturbed his natural poise. He faced up-stream, feet spread, body bent,
arms extended; and in this awkward posture, at a disadvantage, he swayed
dangerously, incommoded by the pack, his legs quivering in the current.
Deliberately, then, Billy contorted himself until the pack slipped from
his shoulder to its place on his back; and upright again, established
once more, he dragged his left foot by inches against the current, set
it above the right, forced it into place, and turned to face the
opposite shore. He was fairly mid-stream, now. Another confident,
successful step--a moment more of cool behaviour and intelligent
procedure--and the grip of the current would begin to fail.
All this while the tumbling water had worked its inevitable effect. It
was noisy; it ran swift; it troubled Billy Topsail--the speed and
clatter of it. And he was now confused and dizzy. Now, too, he was
conscious of the roar of the stream below. More clamorously, more
vividly, it asserted itself--reiterated and magnified its suggestion of
disaster. It could not be ignored. Billy Topsail abstracted his
attention. It returned to the menace.
There it was--the roar of the stream below: the deep, narrow rush of it,
swelling over the boulders, curling around them, plunging irresistibly
towards the Black Pool ice, and vanishing into the stifling gloom
beneath, in a swift, black, silent stream, flecked with creamy puffs of
foam. A misstep, a false stone, a lost balance--a man would then drift
fast and helpless, bruised by the bottom, flung against the boulders and
stunned, smothered by the water, cast into Black Pool and left to sink
in still water. It was the logical incident of failure.
Aware of the cumulative effect of fear, conscious of the first creeping
paralysis of it, Billy Topsail instantly determined upon the next step.
It must be taken--it must be taken at once. Already the weakness and
confusion of terror was a crippling factor to be dealt with. He must
act--venture. He moved in haste; there was a misstep, an incautious
faith in the foothold, a blind chance taken--and the current caught him,
lifted him, tugged at him, and he lost his feet, flung his arms in the
air, toppled over, drifted off with the current, submerged, and was
swept like driftwood into the deep rush below.
He rose, gasped, sank--came breathless to the surface; and
self-possessed again, and fighting for life against hope, instinctively,
but yet with determined intelligence, grasping breath when he could and
desperately seeking handhold, foothold--fighting thus he was dragged a
bruising course through the narrowing channel towards Black Pool and at
last momentarily arrested his drift with a failing grip of a boulder.
Archie Armstrong ran down-stream. No expedient was in his horrified
mind. The impulse was to plunge in and rescue Billy if he could.
That was all. But the current was swifter than he; he was
outstripped--stumbling along the rocky, icy shore. When he came
abreast of Billy, who was still clinging to the rock in mid-stream,
he did plunge in; but he came at once to a full stop, not gone a
fathom into the current, and stood staring.
Billy Topsail could not catch the bottom in the lee of the rock. Even
there the current was too strong, the depth of water too great, the lee
too narrow, the rock too small for a wide, sufficient backwater. Black
Pool was within twenty fathoms. Billy's clutch was breaking. In a moment
he would be torn away. Yet there was a moment--a minute or more of
opportunity. And having assured himself of this grace, Archie Armstrong
splashed ashore, without a word or a sign, scaled the bank and ran
down-stream to the bridge of Black Pool ice.
The bridge was rotten. It was rotten from bank to bank. It would not
bear the weight of a man. Archie Armstrong knew it. Its fall was
imminent. It awaited the last straw--a dash of rain, a squall of wind.
The ice was thick; there was a foot of it. And the bridge was heavy; its
attachment to the low cliffs was slight; in a day--next day, perhaps--it
would fall of its own weight, lie inert in the pool, drift slowly away
to the open reaches of Skeleton Arm and drive to sea.
Archie Armstrong, hanging by his hands from the edge of the low cliff,
broke a great fragment from the rock and thus reduced the stability of
the whole; and hanging from the edge of the same low cliff, a few
fathoms below, grasping the roots of the spruce, he broke a second
fragment loose with his weight--a third and a fourth. And the structure
collapsed. It fell in thick, spacious fragments on the quiet water of
the pool, buoyant and dry, and covered the face of the water, held
imprisoned by the rocks of the narrow exit.
When Billy Topsail came drifting down, Archie Armstrong, waiting on the
ice, helped him out and ashore.
"Better build a fire, Archie," said Billy, presently.
"I'm doing that very thing, Billy."
"Thanks, Archie."
"Cold, b'y?"
"I'll take no harm from the wettin'."
"Harm! A hardy kid like you! I laugh!"
Billy grinned.
"When I'm rested," said he, "I'll wring out my clothes. By the time
we've had a snack o' soggy grub I'll be dry. An' then we'll go on."
"On it is!"
Billy looked up.
"Archie," said he, "that was marvellous--clever!"
"Clever?" inquired Archie. "What was clever?"
And Archie Armstrong grinned. He knew well enough what was clever.
* * * * *
Nobody was mad at Poor Luck Barrens. But somebody was in a raving
delirium of fever. And that was big George Tulk--Trapper George of
Bread-and-Butter Tickle. It was a tight little tilt on the edge of the
timber--winter quarters: a log shanty, with a turf roof, deep in a drift
of snow, to which a rising cloud of smoke attracted the attention of
Archie and Billy Topsail. No; what was alarming at Poor Luck Barrens was
not a frenzy of insanity--it was the delirium of pneumonia.
Jinny Tulk was glad enough to receive the help of Billy Topsail and
Archie Armstrong.
By and by Billy asked:
"Was it you put the letter in the cleft stick?"
Jinny smiled.
"Ay," said she.
"I found it," said Billy.
With that Jinny Tulk kissed Billy Topsail before he could stop her. She
was old enough for that; and she was so wholesome and pretty that when
Billy had reflected upon the incident he determined that he would not
try to stop her should she attempt it again.
"How'd you like it?" Archie teased him, privately, when Doctor Luke had
arrived and Trapper George was resting.
Billy blushed.
"'Twasn't so awful," was his stout reply.
Archie burst out laughing. Billy blushed again. Then he, too, laughed.
"I 'low I got my reward," said he.
By that time Trapper George was doing well. Doctor Luke was watchfully
at work. And Doctor Luke and Jinny Tulk, with the help of a spell of
frosty weather and an abundance of healing fresh air, and assisted by
the determined constitution of Trapper George Tulk himself, who had
formed the fixed habit of surviving adverse conditions--Doctor Luke and
Jinny Tulk worked an improvement, which passed presently into a state
of convalescence and ultimately became a cure. It was no easy matter.
Trapper George Tulk put one foot over the border--took a long look into
the final shadows. But Doctor Luke was a good fighter. And he happened
to win.