It was as the little ones were playing tag that Hughie came to grief. He was easily king of his company and led the game. Quick as a weasel, swift and wary, he was always the last to be caught. Around the trees, and out and in among the big boys, he led the chase, much to Tom Finch's disgust, who had not forgotten the spelling-match incident. Not that he cared for the defeat, but he still felt the bite in the master's final words, and he carried a grudge against the boy who had been the occasion of his humiliation.
“Keep off!” he cried, angrily, as Hughie swung himself round him. But Hughie paid no heed to Tom's growl, unless, indeed, to repeat his offense, with the result that, as he flew off, Tom caught him a kick that hastened his flight and laid him flat on his back amid the laughter of the boys.
“Tom,” said Hughie, gravely and slowly, so that they all stood listening, “do you know what you kick like?”
The boys stood waiting.
“A h-e-i-p-h-e-r.”
In a moment Tom had him by the neck, and after a cuff or two, sent him flying, with a warning to keep to himself.
But Hughie, with a saucy answer, was off again on his game, circling as near Tom Finch as he dared, and being as exasperating as possible, till Tom looked as if he would like a chance to pay him off. The chance came, for Hughie, leading the “tag,” came flying past Tom and toward the water. Hardly realizing what he was doing, Tom stuck out his foot and caught him flying past, and before any one knew how it had happened, poor Hughie shot far out into the Deepole, lighting fair on his stomach. There was a great shout of laughter, but in a moment every one was calling, “Swim, Hughie!” “Keep your hands down!” “Don't splash like that, you fool!” “Paddle underneath!” But Hughie was far too excited or too stunned by his fall to do anything but splash and sputter, and sink, and rise again, only to sink once more. In a few moments the affair became serious.
The small boys began to cry, and some of the bigger ones to undress, when there was a cry from the elm-tree overhanging the water.
“Run out that board, Don. Quick!”
It was Ranald, who had been swinging up in the highest branches, and had seen what had happened, and was coming down from limb to limb like a squirrel. As he spoke, he dropped from the lowest limb into the water close to where Hughie was splashing wildly.
In an instant, as he rose to the surface, Hughie's arms went round his neck and pulled his head under water. But he was up again, and tugging at Hughie's hands, he cried:
“Don't, Hughie! let go! I'll pull you out. Let go!” But Hughie, half-insensible with terror and with the water he had gulped in, clung with a death-grip.
“Hughie!” gasped Ranald, “you'll drown us both. Oh, Hughie man, let me pull you out, can't you?”
Something in the tone caught Hughie's ear, and he loosed his hold, and Ranald, taking him under the chin, looked round for the board.
By this time Don Cameron was in the water and working the board slowly toward the gasping boys. But now a new danger threatened. The current had gradually carried them toward the log jam, under which the water sucked to the falls below. Once under the jam, no power on earth could save.
“Hurry up, Don!” called out Ranald, anxiously. Then, feeling Hughie beginning to clutch again, he added, cheerily, “It's all right. You'll get us.” But his face was gray and his eyes were staring, for over his shoulder he could see the jam and he could feel the suck of the water on his legs.
“Oh, Ranald, you can't do it,” sobbed Hughie. “Will I paddle underneath?”
“Yes, yes, paddle hard, Hughie,” said Ranald, for the jam was just at his back.
But as he spoke, there was a cry, “Ranald, catch it!” Over the slippery logs of the jam came Tom Finch pushing out a plank.
“Catch it!” he cried, “I'll hold this end solid.” And Ranald caught and held fast, and the boys on the bank gave a mighty shout. Soon Don came up with his board, and Tom, catching the end, hauled it up on the rolling logs.
“Hold steady there now!” cried Tom, lying at full length upon the logs; “we'll get you in a minute.”
By this time the other boys had pulled a number of boards and planks out of the jam, and laying them across the logs, made a kind of raft upon which the exhausted swimmers were gradually hauled, and then brought safe to shore.
“Oh, Ranald,” said Tom, almost weeping, “I didn't mean to—I never thought—I'm awfully sorry.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said Ranald, who was taking off Hughie's shirt preparatory to wringing it, “I know. Besides, it was you who pulled us out. You were doing your best, Don, of course, but we would have gone under the jam but for Tom.”
For ten minutes the boys stood going over again the various incidents in the recent dramatic scene, extolling the virtues of Ranald, Don, and Thomas in turn, and imitating, with screams of laughter, Hughie's gulps and splashings while he was fighting for his life. It was their way of expressing their emotions of gratitude and joy, for Hughie was dearly loved by all, though no one would have dared to manifest such weakness.
As they were separating, Hughie whispered to Ranald, “Come home with me, Ranald. I want you.” And Ranald, looking down into the little white face, went. It would be many a day before he would get rid of the picture of the white face, with the staring black eyes, floating on the dark brown water beside him, and that was why he went.
When they reached the path to the manse clearing Ranald and Hughie were alone. For some minutes Hughie followed Ranald in silence on a dog-trot, through the brule, dodging round stumps and roots and climbing over fallen trees, till they came to the pasture-field.
“Hold on, Ranald,” panted Hughie, putting on a spurt and coming up even with his leader.
“Are you warm enough?” asked Ranald, looking down at the little flushed face.
“You bet!”
“Are you dry?”
“Huh, huh.”
“Indeed, you are not too dry,” said Ranald, feeling his wet shirt and trousers, “and your mother will be wondering.”
“I'll tell her,” said Hughie, in a tone of exulting anticipation.
“What!” Ranald stood dead still.
“I'll tell her,” replied Hughie. “She'll be awful glad. And she'll be awful thankful to you, Ranald.”
Ranald looked at him in amazement.
“I think I will jist be going back now,” he said, at length. But Hughie seized him.
“Oh, Ranald, you must come with me.”
He had pictured himself telling his mother of Ranald's exploit, and covering his hero with glory. But this was the very thing that Ranald dreaded and hated, and was bound to prevent.
“You will not be going to the Deepole again, I warrant you,” Ranald said, with emphasis.
“Not go to the Deepole?”
“No, indeed. Your mother will put an end to that sort of thing.”
“Mother! Why not?”
“She will not be wanting to have you drowned.”
Hughie laughed scornfully. “You don't know my mother. She's not afraid of—of anything.”
“But