Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.The Miller’s Boat.Vane so frequently got into hot-water with his experiments that he more than once made vows. But his promises were as unstable as water, and he soon forgot them. He had vowed that he would be contented with things as they were, but his active mind was soon at work contriving.He and Macey had borrowed Rounds the miller’s boat one day for a row. They were out having a desultory wander down by the river, when they came upon the bluff churchwarden himself, and he gave them a friendly nod as he stood by the roadside talking to Chakes about something connected with the church; and, as the boys went on, Macey said, laughing, “I say, Weathercock, you’re such a fellow for making improvements, why don’t you take Chakes in hand, and make him look like the miller?”“They are a contrast, certainly,” said Vane, glancing back at the gloomy, bent form of the sexton, as he stood looking up sidewise at the big, squarely-built, wholesome-looking miller. “But I couldn’t improve him. I say, what shall we do this afternoon?”“I don’t know,” said Macey. “Two can’t play cricket comfortably. It’s stupid to bowl and field.”“Well, and it’s dull work to bat, and be kept waiting while the ball is fetched. Let’s go to my place. I want to try an experiment.”“No, thank you,” cried Macey. “Don’t catch me holding wires, or being set to pound something in a mortar. I know your little games, Vane Lee. You’ve caught me once or twice before.”“Well, let’s do something. I hate wasting time.”“Come and tease old Gil; or, let’s go and sit down somewhere near Distie. He’s in the meadows, and it will make him mad as mad if you go near him.”“Try something better,” said Vane.“Oh, I don’t know. We might go blackberrying, only one seems to be getting too old for that sort of thing. Let’s hire two nags, and have a ride.”“Well, young gents, going my way?” cried the miller, from behind them, as he strode along in their rear.“Where are you going?” said Vane.“Down to the mill. The wind won’t blow, so I’m obliged to make up for it at the river mill, only the water is getting short. That’s the best of having two strings to your bow, my lads. By the time the water gets low, perhaps the wind may rise, and turn one’s sails again. When I can’t get wind or water there’s no flour, and if there’s no flour there’ll be no bread.”“That’s cheerful,” cried Macey.“Yes; keeps one back, my lad. Two strings to one’s bow arn’t enough. Say, Master Lee, you’re a clever sort of chap, and make all kinds of ’ventions; can’t you set me going with a steam engine thing as ’ll make my stones run, when there’s no water?”“I think I could,” said Vane, eagerly.“I thowt you’d say that, lad,” cried the miller, laughing; “but I’ve heard say as there’s blowings-up—explosions—over your works sometimes, eh?”“Oh, that was an accident,” cried Vane.“And accidents happen in the best regulated families, they say,” cried the miller. “Well, I must think about it. Cost a mint o’ money to do that.”By this time they had reached the long, low, weather-boarded, wooden building, which spanned the river like a bridge, and looked curiously picturesque among the ancient willows growing on the banks, and with their roots laving in the water.It was a singular-looking place, built principally on a narrow island in the centre of the stream, and its floodgates and dam on either side of the island; while heavy wheels, all green with slimy growth, and looking grim and dangerous as they turned beneath the mill on either side, kept up a curious rumbling and splashing sound that was full of suggestions of what the consequences would be should anyone be swept over them by the sluggish current in the dam, and down into the dark pool below.“Haven’t seen you, gents, lately, for a day’s fishing,” said the miller, as he entered the swing-gate, and held it open for the lads to follow, which, having nothing else to do, they did, as a matter of course.“No,” said Macey; “been too busy over our books.”The churchwarden laughed.“Oh, yes, I suppose so, sir. You look just the sort of boy who would work himself to death over his learning. Tired of fishing?”“I’m not,” said Vane. “Have there been many up here lately?”“Swarms,” said the miller. “Pool’s alive with roach and chub sometimes, and up in the dam for hundreds of yards you may hear the big tench sucking and smacking their lips among the weeds, as if they was waiting for a bit of paste or a fat worm.”“You’ll give us a day’s fishing any time we like to come then, Mr Rounds?” said Vane.“Two, if you like, my lads. Sorry I can’t fit you up with tackle, or you might have a turn now.”“Oh, I shan’t come and fish that way,” cried Macey. “I’ve tried too often. You make all kinds of preparations, and then you come, and the fish won’t bite. They never will when I try.”“Don’t try enough, do he, Master Lee?”“Yes, I do,” cried Macey. “I like fishing with a net, or I should like to have a try if you ran all the water out of the dam, so that we could see what fish were in.”“Yes, I suppose you’d like that.”“Hi! Look there, Vane,” cried Macey, pointing to a newly-painted boat fastened by its chain to one of the willows. “I’m ready for a row if Mr Rounds would lend us the boat.”“Nay, you’d go and drown yourself and Master Vane too.”“Pooh! as if we couldn’t row. I say, Mr Rounds, do lend us the boat.”“Oh, well, I don’t mind, my lads, if you’ll promise to be steady, and not get playing any games.”“Oh, I’ll promise, and there’s no need to ask Lee. He’s as steady as you are.”“All right, lads; you can have her. Oars is inside the mill. I’ll show you. Want to go up or down?”“I don’t care,” said Macey.“If you want to go down stream, I shall have to slide the boat down the overshoot. Better go up, and then you’ll have the stream with you coming back. Hello, here’s some more of you.”This was on his seeing Distin and Gilmore coming in the other direction, and Macey shouted directly:“Hi! We’ve got the boat. Come and have a row.”Gilmore was willing at once, but Distin held off for a few moments, but the sight of the newly-painted boat, the clear water of the sunlit river, and the glowing tints of the trees up where the stream wound along near the edge of the wood, were too much for him, and he took the lead at once, and began to unfasten the chain.“You can fasten her up again when you bring her back,” said the miller, as he led the way into the mill.“I do like the smell of the freshly-ground flour,” cried Macey, as they passed the door. “But, I say, Vane Lee, hadn’t we better have gone alone? You see if those two don’t monopolise the oars till they’re tired, and then we shall have to row them just where they please.”“Never mind,” said Vane; “we shall be on the water.”“I’ll help you pitch them in, if they turn nasty, as people call it, down here.”“There you are, young gents, and the boat-hook, too,” said the miller, opening his office door, and pointing to the oars. “Brand noo uns I’ve just had made, so don’t break ’em.”“All right, we’ll take care,” said Macey; and, after a few words of thanks, the two lads bore out the oars, and crossed a narrow plank gangway in front of the mill to the island, where Distin and Gilmore were seated in the boat.“Who’s going to row?” said Macey.“We are,” replied Distin, quietly taking off his jacket, Gilmore following suit, and Macey gave Vane a look, which plainly said, “Told you so,” as he settled himself down in the stern.The start was not brilliant, for, on pushing off, Distin did not take his time from Gilmore, who was before him, and consequently gave him a tremendous thump on the back with both fists.“I say,” roared Gilmore, “we haven’t come out crab-catching.”Whereupon Macey burst into a roar of laughter, and Vane smiled.Distin, who was exceedingly nervous and excited, looked up sharply, ignored Macey, and addressed Vane.“Idiot!” he cried. “I suppose you never had an accident in rowing.”“Lots,” said Vane, with his face flushing, but he kept his temper.“Perhaps you had better take the oar yourself.”“Try the other way, Mr Distin, sir,” cried the miller, in his big, bluff voice; and, looking up, they could see his big, jolly face at a little trap-like window high up in the mill.“Eh! Oh, thank you,” said Distin, in a hurried, nervous way, and, rising in his seat, he was in the act of turning round to sit down with his back to Gilmore, when a fresh roar of laughter from Macey showed him that the miller was having a grin at his expense.Just then the little window shut with a sharp clap, and Distin hesitated, and glanced at the shore as if, had it been closer, he would have leaped out of the boat, and walked off. But they were a good boat’s length distant, and he sat down again with an angry scowl on his face, and began to pull.“In for a row again,” said Gilmore to himself. “Why cannot a fellow bear a bit of banter like that!”To make things go more easily, Gilmore reversed the regular order of rowing, and took his time, as well as he could, from Distin, and the boat went on, the latter tugging viciously at the scull he held. The consequence was, that, as there was no rudder and the river was not straight, there was a tendency on the part of the boat to run its nose into the bank, in spite of all that Gilmore could do to prevent it; and at last Macey seized the boat-hook, and put it over the stern.“Look here,” he cried, “I daresay I can steer you a bit with this.”But his act only increased the annoyance of Distin, who had been nursing his rage, and trying to fit the cause in some way upon Vane.“Put that thing down, idiot!” he cried, fiercely, “and sit still in the boat. Do you think I am going to be made the laughing-stock of everybody by your insane antics?”“Oh, all right, Colonist,” said Macey, good-humouredly; “only some people would put the pole down on your head for calling ’em idiots.”“What!” roared Distin; “do you dare to threaten me?”“Oh, dear, no, sir. I beg your pardon, sir. I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t come for to go for to—”“Clown!” cried Distin, contemptuously.“Oh, I say, Vane, we are having a jolly ride,” whispered Macey, but loud enough for Distin to hear, and the Creole’s dark eyes flashed at them.“I say, Distin,” said Gilmore in a remonstrant growl, “don’t be so precious peppery about nothing. Aleck didn’t mean any harm.”“That’s right! Take his part,” cried Distin, making the water foam, as he pulled hard. “You fellows form a regularcabal, and make a dead set at me. But I’m not afraid. You’ve got the wrong man to deal with, and—confound the wretched boat!”He jumped up, and raising the scull, made a sharp dig with it at the shore, and would have broken it, had not Gilmore checked him.“Don’t!” he cried, “you will snap the blade.”For, having nearly stopped rowing as he turned to protest, the natural result was that the boat’s nose was dragged round, and the sharp prow ran right into the soft overhanging bank and stuck fast.Vane tried to check himself, but a hearty fit of laughter would come, one which proved contagious, for Macey and Gilmore both joined in, the former rolling about and giving vent to such a peculiar set of grunts and squeaks of delight, as increased the others’ mirth, and made Distin throw down his scull, and jump ashore, stamping with rage.“No, no, Distie, don’t do that,” cried Gilmore, wiping his eyes. “Come back.”“I won’t ride with such a set of fools,” panted Distin, hoarsely. “You did it on purpose to annoy me.”He took a few sharp steps away, biting his upper lip with rage, and the laughter ceased in the boat.“I say, Distin,” cried Vane; and the lad faced round instantly with a vindictive look at the speaker as he walked sharply back to the boat, and sprang in.“No, I will not go,” he cried. “That’s what you want—to get rid of me, but you’ve found your match.”He sprang in so sharply that the boat gave a lurch and freed itself from the bank, gliding off into deep water again; and as Distin resumed his scull, Gilmore waited for it to dip, and then pulled, so that solely by his skill—for Distin was very inexperienced as an oarsman—the boat was kept pretty straight, and they went on up stream in silence.Macey gazed at Gilmore, who was of course facing him, but he could not look at his friend without seeing Distin too, and to look at the latter meant drawing upon himself a savage glare. So he turned his eyes to Vane, with the result that Distin watched him as if he were certain that he was going to detect some fresh conspiracy.Macey sighed, and gazed dolefully at the bank, as if he wished that he were ashore.Vane gazed at the bank too, and thought of his ill luck in being at odds with Distin, and of the many walks he had had along there with his uncle. These memories brought up plenty of pleasant thoughts, and he began to search for different water-plants and chat about them to Macey, who listened eagerly this time for the sake of having something to do.“Look!” said Vane pointing; “there’s the Stratiotes.”“What?”“Stratiotes. The water-soldier.”“Then he’s a deserter,” said Macey. “Hold hard you two, and let’s arrest him.”“No, no; go on rowing,” said Vane.“Don’t take any notice of the buffoon, Gilmore,” cried Distin sharply. “Pull!”“I say, old cock of the weather,” whispered Macey, leaning over the side, “I’d give something to be as strong as you are.”“Why?” asked Vane in the same low tone.“Because my left fist wants to punch Distie’s nose, and I haven’t got muscle enough—what do you call it, biceps—to do it.”“Let dogs delight to bark and bite,” said Vane, laughing.“Don’t,” whispered Macey; “you’re making Distie mad again. He feels we’re talking about him. Go on about the vegetables.”“All right. There you are then. That’s all branched bur-reed.”“What, that thing with the little spikey horse-chestnuts on it?”“That’s it.”“Good to eat?”“I never tried it. There’s something that isn’t,” continued Vane, pointing at some vivid green, deeply-cut and ornamental leaves.“What is it? Looks as if it would make a good salad.”“Water hemlock. Very poisonous.”“Do not chew the hemlock rank—growing on the weedy bank,” quoted Macey. “I wish you wouldn’t begin nursery rhymes. You’ve started me off now. I should like some of those bulrushes,” and he pointed to a cluster of the brown poker-like growth rising from the water, well out of reach from the bank.“Those are not bulrushes.”“What are they, then?”“It is the reed-mace.”“They’ll do just as well by that name. I say, Distie, I want to cut some of them.”“Go on rowing,” said Distin, haughtily, to Gilmore, without glancing at Macey.“All right, my lord,” muttered Macey. “Halloo! What was that? a big fish?”“No; it was a water-rat jumped in.”“All right again,” said Macey good-humouredly. “I don’t know anything at all. There never was such an ignorant chap as I am.”“Give me the other scull, Gilmore,” said Distin, just then.“All right, but hadn’t we better go a little higher first? The stream runs very hard just here.”Distin uttered a sound similar to that made by a turkey-cock before he begins to gobble—a sound that may be represented by the wordPhut, and they preserved their relative places.“What are those leaves shaped like spears?” said Macey, giving Vane a peculiar look.“Arrowheads.”“There, I do know what those are!” cried Macey, quickly as a shoal of good-sized fish darted of from a gravelly shallow into deep water.“Well, what are they?”“Roach and dace.”“Neither,” said Vane, laughing heartily.“Well, I—oh, but they are.”“No.”“What then?”“Chub.”“How do you know?”“By the black edge round their tails.”“I say!” cried Macey; “how do you know all these precious things so readily?”“Walks with uncle,” replied Vane. “I don’t know much but he seems to know everything.”“Why I thought he couldn’t know anything but about salts and senna, and bleeding, and people’s tongues when they put ’em out.”“Here, Macey and he had better row now,” cried Distin, suddenly. “Let’s have a rest, Gilmore.”The exchange of position was soon made, and Macey said, as he rolled up his sleeves over his thin arms, which were in peculiar contrast to his round plump face:—“Now then: let’s show old pepper-pot what rowing is.”“No: pull steadily, and don’t show off,” said Vane quietly. “We want to look at the things on the banks.”“Oh, all right,” cried Macey resignedly; and the sculls dipped together in a quiet, steady, splashless pull, the two lads feathering well, and, with scarcely any exertion, sending the boat along at a fair pace, while Vane, with a naturalist’s eye, noted the different plants on the banks, the birds building in the water-growth—reed sparrows, and bearded tits, and pointing out the moor-hens, coots, and an occasional duck.All at once, as they cut into a patch of the great dark flat leaves of the yellow water-lily, there was a tremendous swirl in the river just beyond the bows of the boat—one which sent the leaves heaving and falling for some distance ahead.“Come now, that was a pike,” cried Macey, as he looked at Distin lolling back nonchalantly, with his eyes half-closed.“Yes; that was a pike, and a big one too,” said Vane. “Let’s see, opposite those three pollard willows in the big horseshoe bend. We’ll come and have a try for him, Aleck, one of these days.”It was a pleasant row, Macey and Vane keeping the oars for a couple of hours, right on, past another mill, and among the stumps which showed where the old bridge and the side-road once spanned the deeps—a bridge which had gradually decayed away and had never been replaced, as the traffic was so small and there was a good shallow ford a quarter of a mile farther on.The country was beautifully picturesque up here, and the latter part of their row was by a lovely grove of beeches which grew on a chalk ridge—almost a cliff—at whose foot the clear river ran babbling along.Here, all of a sudden, Macey threw up the blade of his oar, and at a pull or two from Vane, the boat’s keel grated on the pebbly sand.“What’s that for?” cried Gilmore, who had been half asleep as he sat right back in the stern, with his hands holding the sides.“Time to go back,” said Macey. “Want my corn.”“He means his thistle,” said Distin, rousing himself to utter a sarcastic remark.“Thistle, if you like,” said Macey, good-humouredly. “Donkey enjoys his thistle as much as a horse does his corn, or you did chewing sugar-cane among your father’s niggers.”It was an unlucky speech, and like a spark to gunpowder.Distin sprang up and made for Macey, with his fists doubled, but Vane interposed.“No,” he said; “no fighting in a boat, please. Gilmore and I don’t want a ducking, if you do.”There was another change in the Creole on the instant. The fierce angry look gave place to a sneering smile, and he spoke in a husky whisper.“Oh, I see,” he said, gazing at Vane the while, with half-shut eyes. “You prompted him to say that.”Vane did not condescend to answer, but Macey cried promptly,—“That he didn’t. Made it all up out of my own head.”“A miserable insult,” muttered Distin.“But he had nothing to do with it, Distie,” said Macey; “all my own; and if you wish for satisfaction—swords or pistols at six sharp, with coffee, I’m your man.”Distin took no heed of him, but stood watching Vane, his dark half-shut eyes flashing as they gazed into the lad’s calm wide-open grey orbs.“I say,” continued Macey, “if you wish for the satisfaction of a gentleman—”“Satisfaction—gentleman!” raged out Distin, as he turned suddenly upon Macey. “Silence, buffoon!”“The buffoon is silent,” said Macey, sinking calmly down into his place; “but don’t you two fight, please, till after we’ve got back and had some food. I say, Gil, is there no place up here where we can buy some tuck?”“No,” replied Gilmore; and then, “Sit down, Vane. Come, Distie, what is the good of kicking up such a row about nothing. You really are too bad, you know. Let’s, you and I, row back.”“Keep your advice till it is asked for,” said Distin contemptuously. “You, Macey, go back yonder into the stern. Perhaps Mr Vane Lee will condescend to take another seat.”“Oh, certainly,” said Vane quietly, though there was a peculiar sensation of tingling in his veins, and a hot feeling about the throat. The peculiar human or animal nature was effervescing within him, and though he hardly realised it himself, he wanted to fight horribly, and there was that mastering him in those moments which would have made it a keen joy to have stood ashore there on the grass beneath the chalk cliff and pummelled Distin till he could not see to get back to the boat.But he did not so much as double his fist, though he knew that Macey and Gilmore were both watching him narrowly and thinking, he felt sure, that, if Distin struck him, he would not return the blow.As the three lads took their seats, Distin, with a lordly contempt and arrogance of manner, removed his jacket, and deliberately doubled it up to place it forward. Then slowly rolling up his sleeves he took the sculls, seated himself and began to back-water but without effect, for the boat was too firmly aground forward.“You’ll never get her off that way,” cried Macey the irrepressible. “Now lads, all together, make her roll.”“Sit still, sir!” thundered Distin—at least he meant to thunder, but it was only a hoarse squeak.“Yes, sir; certainly, sir,” cried Macey; and then, in an undertone to his companions, “Shall we not sterrike for ferreedom? Are we all—er—serlaves!”Then he laughed, and slapped his leg, for Distin drew in one scull, rose, and began to use the other to thrust the boat off.“I say, you know,” cried Macey, as Gilmore held up the boat-hook to Distin, but it was ignored, “I don’t mean to pay my whack if you break that scull.”“Do you wish me to break yours?” retorted Distin, so fiercely that his words came with a regular snarl.“Oh, murder! he’s gone mad,” said Macey, in a loud whisper; and screwing up his face into a grimace which he intended to represent horrible dread, but more resembled the effects produced by a pin or thorn, he crouched down right away in the stern of the boat, but kept up a continuous rocking which helped Distin’s efforts to get her off into deep water. When the latter seated himself, turned the head, and began to row back, that is to say, he dipped the sculls lightly from time to time, so as to keep the boat straight, the stream being strong enough to carry them steadily down without an effort on the rower’s part.Macey being right in the stern, Vane and Gilmore sat side by side, making a comment now and then about something they passed, while Distin was of course alone, watching them all from time to time through his half-closed eyes, as if suspicious that their words might be relating to him.Then a gloomy silence fell, which lasted till Macey burst out in ecstatic tones:“Oh, I am enjoying of myself!”Then, after a pause:“Never had such a glorious day before.”Another silence, broken by Macey once more, saying in a deferential way:—“If your excellency feels exhausted by this unwonted exertion, your servant will gladly take an oar.”Distin ceased rowing, and, balancing the oars a-feather, he said coldly:—“If you don’t stop that chattering, my good fellow, I’ll either pitch you overboard, or set you ashore to walk home.”“Thankye,” cried Macey, cheerfully; “but I’ll take the dry, please.”Distin’s teeth grated together as he sat and scowled at his fellow-pupil, muttering, “Chattering ape;” but he made no effort to put his threats into execution, and kept rowing on, twisting his neck round from time to time, to see which way they were going; Vane and Gilmore went on talking in a low tone; and Macey talked to himself.“He has made me feel vicious,” he said. “I’m a chattering ape, am I? He’ll pitch me overboard, will he? I’d call him a beast, only it would be so rude. He’d pitch me overboard, would he? Well, I could swim if he did, and that’s more than he could do.”Macey looked before him at Vane and Gilmore, to see that the former had turned to the side and was thoughtfully dipping his hand in the water, as if paddling.“Halloo, Weathercock!” he cried. “I know what you’re thinking about.”“Not you,” cried Vane merrily, as he looked back.“I do. You were thinking you could invent a machine to send the boat along far better than old West Indies is doing it now.”Vane stared at him.“Well,” he said, hesitatingly, “I was not thinking about Distin’s rowing, but I was trying to hit out some way of propelling a boat without steam.”“Knew it! I knew it! Here, I shan’t read for the bar; I shall study up for a head boss conjurer, thought-reader, and clairvoyant.”“For goodness’ sake, Gilmore, lean back, and stuff your handkerchief in that chattering pie’s mouth. You had better; it will save me from pitching him into the river.”Then deep silence fell on the little party, and Macey’s eyes sparkled.“Yes, he has made me vicious now,” he said to himself; and, as he sat back, he saw something which sent a thought through his brain which made him hug his knees. “Let me see,” he mused: “Vane can swim and dive like an otter, and Gil is better in the water than I am. All right, my boy; you shall pitch me in.”Then aloud:“Keep her straight, Distie. Don’t send her nose into the willows.”The rower looked sharply round, and pulled his right scull. Then, a little further on, Macey shouted:—“Too much port—pull your right.”Distin resented this with an angry look; but Macey kept on in the most unruffled way, and, by degrees, as the rower found that it saved him from a great deal of unpleasant screwing round and neck-twisting, he began to obey the commands, and pulled a little harder, so that they travelled more swiftly down the winding stream.“Port!” shouted Macey. “Port it is! Straight on!”Then, after a minute,—“Starboard! More starboard! Straight on!”Again: “Pull your right—not too much. Both hands;” and Distin calmly and indifferently followed the orders, till it had just occurred to him that the others might as well row now, when Macey shouted again:—“Right—a little more right; now, both together. That’s the way;” and, as again Distin obeyed, Macey shut his eyes, and drew up his knees. To give a final impetus to the light craft, Distin leaned forward, threw back the blades of the sculls, dipped, and took hold of the water, and then was jerked backwards as the boat struck with a crash on one of the old piles of the ancient bridge, ran up over it a little way, swung round, and directly after capsized, and began to float down stream, leaving its human freight struggling in deep water.

Vane so frequently got into hot-water with his experiments that he more than once made vows. But his promises were as unstable as water, and he soon forgot them. He had vowed that he would be contented with things as they were, but his active mind was soon at work contriving.

He and Macey had borrowed Rounds the miller’s boat one day for a row. They were out having a desultory wander down by the river, when they came upon the bluff churchwarden himself, and he gave them a friendly nod as he stood by the roadside talking to Chakes about something connected with the church; and, as the boys went on, Macey said, laughing, “I say, Weathercock, you’re such a fellow for making improvements, why don’t you take Chakes in hand, and make him look like the miller?”

“They are a contrast, certainly,” said Vane, glancing back at the gloomy, bent form of the sexton, as he stood looking up sidewise at the big, squarely-built, wholesome-looking miller. “But I couldn’t improve him. I say, what shall we do this afternoon?”

“I don’t know,” said Macey. “Two can’t play cricket comfortably. It’s stupid to bowl and field.”

“Well, and it’s dull work to bat, and be kept waiting while the ball is fetched. Let’s go to my place. I want to try an experiment.”

“No, thank you,” cried Macey. “Don’t catch me holding wires, or being set to pound something in a mortar. I know your little games, Vane Lee. You’ve caught me once or twice before.”

“Well, let’s do something. I hate wasting time.”

“Come and tease old Gil; or, let’s go and sit down somewhere near Distie. He’s in the meadows, and it will make him mad as mad if you go near him.”

“Try something better,” said Vane.

“Oh, I don’t know. We might go blackberrying, only one seems to be getting too old for that sort of thing. Let’s hire two nags, and have a ride.”

“Well, young gents, going my way?” cried the miller, from behind them, as he strode along in their rear.

“Where are you going?” said Vane.

“Down to the mill. The wind won’t blow, so I’m obliged to make up for it at the river mill, only the water is getting short. That’s the best of having two strings to your bow, my lads. By the time the water gets low, perhaps the wind may rise, and turn one’s sails again. When I can’t get wind or water there’s no flour, and if there’s no flour there’ll be no bread.”

“That’s cheerful,” cried Macey.

“Yes; keeps one back, my lad. Two strings to one’s bow arn’t enough. Say, Master Lee, you’re a clever sort of chap, and make all kinds of ’ventions; can’t you set me going with a steam engine thing as ’ll make my stones run, when there’s no water?”

“I think I could,” said Vane, eagerly.

“I thowt you’d say that, lad,” cried the miller, laughing; “but I’ve heard say as there’s blowings-up—explosions—over your works sometimes, eh?”

“Oh, that was an accident,” cried Vane.

“And accidents happen in the best regulated families, they say,” cried the miller. “Well, I must think about it. Cost a mint o’ money to do that.”

By this time they had reached the long, low, weather-boarded, wooden building, which spanned the river like a bridge, and looked curiously picturesque among the ancient willows growing on the banks, and with their roots laving in the water.

It was a singular-looking place, built principally on a narrow island in the centre of the stream, and its floodgates and dam on either side of the island; while heavy wheels, all green with slimy growth, and looking grim and dangerous as they turned beneath the mill on either side, kept up a curious rumbling and splashing sound that was full of suggestions of what the consequences would be should anyone be swept over them by the sluggish current in the dam, and down into the dark pool below.

“Haven’t seen you, gents, lately, for a day’s fishing,” said the miller, as he entered the swing-gate, and held it open for the lads to follow, which, having nothing else to do, they did, as a matter of course.

“No,” said Macey; “been too busy over our books.”

The churchwarden laughed.

“Oh, yes, I suppose so, sir. You look just the sort of boy who would work himself to death over his learning. Tired of fishing?”

“I’m not,” said Vane. “Have there been many up here lately?”

“Swarms,” said the miller. “Pool’s alive with roach and chub sometimes, and up in the dam for hundreds of yards you may hear the big tench sucking and smacking their lips among the weeds, as if they was waiting for a bit of paste or a fat worm.”

“You’ll give us a day’s fishing any time we like to come then, Mr Rounds?” said Vane.

“Two, if you like, my lads. Sorry I can’t fit you up with tackle, or you might have a turn now.”

“Oh, I shan’t come and fish that way,” cried Macey. “I’ve tried too often. You make all kinds of preparations, and then you come, and the fish won’t bite. They never will when I try.”

“Don’t try enough, do he, Master Lee?”

“Yes, I do,” cried Macey. “I like fishing with a net, or I should like to have a try if you ran all the water out of the dam, so that we could see what fish were in.”

“Yes, I suppose you’d like that.”

“Hi! Look there, Vane,” cried Macey, pointing to a newly-painted boat fastened by its chain to one of the willows. “I’m ready for a row if Mr Rounds would lend us the boat.”

“Nay, you’d go and drown yourself and Master Vane too.”

“Pooh! as if we couldn’t row. I say, Mr Rounds, do lend us the boat.”

“Oh, well, I don’t mind, my lads, if you’ll promise to be steady, and not get playing any games.”

“Oh, I’ll promise, and there’s no need to ask Lee. He’s as steady as you are.”

“All right, lads; you can have her. Oars is inside the mill. I’ll show you. Want to go up or down?”

“I don’t care,” said Macey.

“If you want to go down stream, I shall have to slide the boat down the overshoot. Better go up, and then you’ll have the stream with you coming back. Hello, here’s some more of you.”

This was on his seeing Distin and Gilmore coming in the other direction, and Macey shouted directly:

“Hi! We’ve got the boat. Come and have a row.”

Gilmore was willing at once, but Distin held off for a few moments, but the sight of the newly-painted boat, the clear water of the sunlit river, and the glowing tints of the trees up where the stream wound along near the edge of the wood, were too much for him, and he took the lead at once, and began to unfasten the chain.

“You can fasten her up again when you bring her back,” said the miller, as he led the way into the mill.

“I do like the smell of the freshly-ground flour,” cried Macey, as they passed the door. “But, I say, Vane Lee, hadn’t we better have gone alone? You see if those two don’t monopolise the oars till they’re tired, and then we shall have to row them just where they please.”

“Never mind,” said Vane; “we shall be on the water.”

“I’ll help you pitch them in, if they turn nasty, as people call it, down here.”

“There you are, young gents, and the boat-hook, too,” said the miller, opening his office door, and pointing to the oars. “Brand noo uns I’ve just had made, so don’t break ’em.”

“All right, we’ll take care,” said Macey; and, after a few words of thanks, the two lads bore out the oars, and crossed a narrow plank gangway in front of the mill to the island, where Distin and Gilmore were seated in the boat.

“Who’s going to row?” said Macey.

“We are,” replied Distin, quietly taking off his jacket, Gilmore following suit, and Macey gave Vane a look, which plainly said, “Told you so,” as he settled himself down in the stern.

The start was not brilliant, for, on pushing off, Distin did not take his time from Gilmore, who was before him, and consequently gave him a tremendous thump on the back with both fists.

“I say,” roared Gilmore, “we haven’t come out crab-catching.”

Whereupon Macey burst into a roar of laughter, and Vane smiled.

Distin, who was exceedingly nervous and excited, looked up sharply, ignored Macey, and addressed Vane.

“Idiot!” he cried. “I suppose you never had an accident in rowing.”

“Lots,” said Vane, with his face flushing, but he kept his temper.

“Perhaps you had better take the oar yourself.”

“Try the other way, Mr Distin, sir,” cried the miller, in his big, bluff voice; and, looking up, they could see his big, jolly face at a little trap-like window high up in the mill.

“Eh! Oh, thank you,” said Distin, in a hurried, nervous way, and, rising in his seat, he was in the act of turning round to sit down with his back to Gilmore, when a fresh roar of laughter from Macey showed him that the miller was having a grin at his expense.

Just then the little window shut with a sharp clap, and Distin hesitated, and glanced at the shore as if, had it been closer, he would have leaped out of the boat, and walked off. But they were a good boat’s length distant, and he sat down again with an angry scowl on his face, and began to pull.

“In for a row again,” said Gilmore to himself. “Why cannot a fellow bear a bit of banter like that!”

To make things go more easily, Gilmore reversed the regular order of rowing, and took his time, as well as he could, from Distin, and the boat went on, the latter tugging viciously at the scull he held. The consequence was, that, as there was no rudder and the river was not straight, there was a tendency on the part of the boat to run its nose into the bank, in spite of all that Gilmore could do to prevent it; and at last Macey seized the boat-hook, and put it over the stern.

“Look here,” he cried, “I daresay I can steer you a bit with this.”

But his act only increased the annoyance of Distin, who had been nursing his rage, and trying to fit the cause in some way upon Vane.

“Put that thing down, idiot!” he cried, fiercely, “and sit still in the boat. Do you think I am going to be made the laughing-stock of everybody by your insane antics?”

“Oh, all right, Colonist,” said Macey, good-humouredly; “only some people would put the pole down on your head for calling ’em idiots.”

“What!” roared Distin; “do you dare to threaten me?”

“Oh, dear, no, sir. I beg your pardon, sir. I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t come for to go for to—”

“Clown!” cried Distin, contemptuously.

“Oh, I say, Vane, we are having a jolly ride,” whispered Macey, but loud enough for Distin to hear, and the Creole’s dark eyes flashed at them.

“I say, Distin,” said Gilmore in a remonstrant growl, “don’t be so precious peppery about nothing. Aleck didn’t mean any harm.”

“That’s right! Take his part,” cried Distin, making the water foam, as he pulled hard. “You fellows form a regularcabal, and make a dead set at me. But I’m not afraid. You’ve got the wrong man to deal with, and—confound the wretched boat!”

He jumped up, and raising the scull, made a sharp dig with it at the shore, and would have broken it, had not Gilmore checked him.

“Don’t!” he cried, “you will snap the blade.”

For, having nearly stopped rowing as he turned to protest, the natural result was that the boat’s nose was dragged round, and the sharp prow ran right into the soft overhanging bank and stuck fast.

Vane tried to check himself, but a hearty fit of laughter would come, one which proved contagious, for Macey and Gilmore both joined in, the former rolling about and giving vent to such a peculiar set of grunts and squeaks of delight, as increased the others’ mirth, and made Distin throw down his scull, and jump ashore, stamping with rage.

“No, no, Distie, don’t do that,” cried Gilmore, wiping his eyes. “Come back.”

“I won’t ride with such a set of fools,” panted Distin, hoarsely. “You did it on purpose to annoy me.”

He took a few sharp steps away, biting his upper lip with rage, and the laughter ceased in the boat.

“I say, Distin,” cried Vane; and the lad faced round instantly with a vindictive look at the speaker as he walked sharply back to the boat, and sprang in.

“No, I will not go,” he cried. “That’s what you want—to get rid of me, but you’ve found your match.”

He sprang in so sharply that the boat gave a lurch and freed itself from the bank, gliding off into deep water again; and as Distin resumed his scull, Gilmore waited for it to dip, and then pulled, so that solely by his skill—for Distin was very inexperienced as an oarsman—the boat was kept pretty straight, and they went on up stream in silence.

Macey gazed at Gilmore, who was of course facing him, but he could not look at his friend without seeing Distin too, and to look at the latter meant drawing upon himself a savage glare. So he turned his eyes to Vane, with the result that Distin watched him as if he were certain that he was going to detect some fresh conspiracy.

Macey sighed, and gazed dolefully at the bank, as if he wished that he were ashore.

Vane gazed at the bank too, and thought of his ill luck in being at odds with Distin, and of the many walks he had had along there with his uncle. These memories brought up plenty of pleasant thoughts, and he began to search for different water-plants and chat about them to Macey, who listened eagerly this time for the sake of having something to do.

“Look!” said Vane pointing; “there’s the Stratiotes.”

“What?”

“Stratiotes. The water-soldier.”

“Then he’s a deserter,” said Macey. “Hold hard you two, and let’s arrest him.”

“No, no; go on rowing,” said Vane.

“Don’t take any notice of the buffoon, Gilmore,” cried Distin sharply. “Pull!”

“I say, old cock of the weather,” whispered Macey, leaning over the side, “I’d give something to be as strong as you are.”

“Why?” asked Vane in the same low tone.

“Because my left fist wants to punch Distie’s nose, and I haven’t got muscle enough—what do you call it, biceps—to do it.”

“Let dogs delight to bark and bite,” said Vane, laughing.

“Don’t,” whispered Macey; “you’re making Distie mad again. He feels we’re talking about him. Go on about the vegetables.”

“All right. There you are then. That’s all branched bur-reed.”

“What, that thing with the little spikey horse-chestnuts on it?”

“That’s it.”

“Good to eat?”

“I never tried it. There’s something that isn’t,” continued Vane, pointing at some vivid green, deeply-cut and ornamental leaves.

“What is it? Looks as if it would make a good salad.”

“Water hemlock. Very poisonous.”

“Do not chew the hemlock rank—growing on the weedy bank,” quoted Macey. “I wish you wouldn’t begin nursery rhymes. You’ve started me off now. I should like some of those bulrushes,” and he pointed to a cluster of the brown poker-like growth rising from the water, well out of reach from the bank.

“Those are not bulrushes.”

“What are they, then?”

“It is the reed-mace.”

“They’ll do just as well by that name. I say, Distie, I want to cut some of them.”

“Go on rowing,” said Distin, haughtily, to Gilmore, without glancing at Macey.

“All right, my lord,” muttered Macey. “Halloo! What was that? a big fish?”

“No; it was a water-rat jumped in.”

“All right again,” said Macey good-humouredly. “I don’t know anything at all. There never was such an ignorant chap as I am.”

“Give me the other scull, Gilmore,” said Distin, just then.

“All right, but hadn’t we better go a little higher first? The stream runs very hard just here.”

Distin uttered a sound similar to that made by a turkey-cock before he begins to gobble—a sound that may be represented by the wordPhut, and they preserved their relative places.

“What are those leaves shaped like spears?” said Macey, giving Vane a peculiar look.

“Arrowheads.”

“There, I do know what those are!” cried Macey, quickly as a shoal of good-sized fish darted of from a gravelly shallow into deep water.

“Well, what are they?”

“Roach and dace.”

“Neither,” said Vane, laughing heartily.

“Well, I—oh, but they are.”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Chub.”

“How do you know?”

“By the black edge round their tails.”

“I say!” cried Macey; “how do you know all these precious things so readily?”

“Walks with uncle,” replied Vane. “I don’t know much but he seems to know everything.”

“Why I thought he couldn’t know anything but about salts and senna, and bleeding, and people’s tongues when they put ’em out.”

“Here, Macey and he had better row now,” cried Distin, suddenly. “Let’s have a rest, Gilmore.”

The exchange of position was soon made, and Macey said, as he rolled up his sleeves over his thin arms, which were in peculiar contrast to his round plump face:—

“Now then: let’s show old pepper-pot what rowing is.”

“No: pull steadily, and don’t show off,” said Vane quietly. “We want to look at the things on the banks.”

“Oh, all right,” cried Macey resignedly; and the sculls dipped together in a quiet, steady, splashless pull, the two lads feathering well, and, with scarcely any exertion, sending the boat along at a fair pace, while Vane, with a naturalist’s eye, noted the different plants on the banks, the birds building in the water-growth—reed sparrows, and bearded tits, and pointing out the moor-hens, coots, and an occasional duck.

All at once, as they cut into a patch of the great dark flat leaves of the yellow water-lily, there was a tremendous swirl in the river just beyond the bows of the boat—one which sent the leaves heaving and falling for some distance ahead.

“Come now, that was a pike,” cried Macey, as he looked at Distin lolling back nonchalantly, with his eyes half-closed.

“Yes; that was a pike, and a big one too,” said Vane. “Let’s see, opposite those three pollard willows in the big horseshoe bend. We’ll come and have a try for him, Aleck, one of these days.”

It was a pleasant row, Macey and Vane keeping the oars for a couple of hours, right on, past another mill, and among the stumps which showed where the old bridge and the side-road once spanned the deeps—a bridge which had gradually decayed away and had never been replaced, as the traffic was so small and there was a good shallow ford a quarter of a mile farther on.

The country was beautifully picturesque up here, and the latter part of their row was by a lovely grove of beeches which grew on a chalk ridge—almost a cliff—at whose foot the clear river ran babbling along.

Here, all of a sudden, Macey threw up the blade of his oar, and at a pull or two from Vane, the boat’s keel grated on the pebbly sand.

“What’s that for?” cried Gilmore, who had been half asleep as he sat right back in the stern, with his hands holding the sides.

“Time to go back,” said Macey. “Want my corn.”

“He means his thistle,” said Distin, rousing himself to utter a sarcastic remark.

“Thistle, if you like,” said Macey, good-humouredly. “Donkey enjoys his thistle as much as a horse does his corn, or you did chewing sugar-cane among your father’s niggers.”

It was an unlucky speech, and like a spark to gunpowder.

Distin sprang up and made for Macey, with his fists doubled, but Vane interposed.

“No,” he said; “no fighting in a boat, please. Gilmore and I don’t want a ducking, if you do.”

There was another change in the Creole on the instant. The fierce angry look gave place to a sneering smile, and he spoke in a husky whisper.

“Oh, I see,” he said, gazing at Vane the while, with half-shut eyes. “You prompted him to say that.”

Vane did not condescend to answer, but Macey cried promptly,—

“That he didn’t. Made it all up out of my own head.”

“A miserable insult,” muttered Distin.

“But he had nothing to do with it, Distie,” said Macey; “all my own; and if you wish for satisfaction—swords or pistols at six sharp, with coffee, I’m your man.”

Distin took no heed of him, but stood watching Vane, his dark half-shut eyes flashing as they gazed into the lad’s calm wide-open grey orbs.

“I say,” continued Macey, “if you wish for the satisfaction of a gentleman—”

“Satisfaction—gentleman!” raged out Distin, as he turned suddenly upon Macey. “Silence, buffoon!”

“The buffoon is silent,” said Macey, sinking calmly down into his place; “but don’t you two fight, please, till after we’ve got back and had some food. I say, Gil, is there no place up here where we can buy some tuck?”

“No,” replied Gilmore; and then, “Sit down, Vane. Come, Distie, what is the good of kicking up such a row about nothing. You really are too bad, you know. Let’s, you and I, row back.”

“Keep your advice till it is asked for,” said Distin contemptuously. “You, Macey, go back yonder into the stern. Perhaps Mr Vane Lee will condescend to take another seat.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Vane quietly, though there was a peculiar sensation of tingling in his veins, and a hot feeling about the throat. The peculiar human or animal nature was effervescing within him, and though he hardly realised it himself, he wanted to fight horribly, and there was that mastering him in those moments which would have made it a keen joy to have stood ashore there on the grass beneath the chalk cliff and pummelled Distin till he could not see to get back to the boat.

But he did not so much as double his fist, though he knew that Macey and Gilmore were both watching him narrowly and thinking, he felt sure, that, if Distin struck him, he would not return the blow.

As the three lads took their seats, Distin, with a lordly contempt and arrogance of manner, removed his jacket, and deliberately doubled it up to place it forward. Then slowly rolling up his sleeves he took the sculls, seated himself and began to back-water but without effect, for the boat was too firmly aground forward.

“You’ll never get her off that way,” cried Macey the irrepressible. “Now lads, all together, make her roll.”

“Sit still, sir!” thundered Distin—at least he meant to thunder, but it was only a hoarse squeak.

“Yes, sir; certainly, sir,” cried Macey; and then, in an undertone to his companions, “Shall we not sterrike for ferreedom? Are we all—er—serlaves!”

Then he laughed, and slapped his leg, for Distin drew in one scull, rose, and began to use the other to thrust the boat off.

“I say, you know,” cried Macey, as Gilmore held up the boat-hook to Distin, but it was ignored, “I don’t mean to pay my whack if you break that scull.”

“Do you wish me to break yours?” retorted Distin, so fiercely that his words came with a regular snarl.

“Oh, murder! he’s gone mad,” said Macey, in a loud whisper; and screwing up his face into a grimace which he intended to represent horrible dread, but more resembled the effects produced by a pin or thorn, he crouched down right away in the stern of the boat, but kept up a continuous rocking which helped Distin’s efforts to get her off into deep water. When the latter seated himself, turned the head, and began to row back, that is to say, he dipped the sculls lightly from time to time, so as to keep the boat straight, the stream being strong enough to carry them steadily down without an effort on the rower’s part.

Macey being right in the stern, Vane and Gilmore sat side by side, making a comment now and then about something they passed, while Distin was of course alone, watching them all from time to time through his half-closed eyes, as if suspicious that their words might be relating to him.

Then a gloomy silence fell, which lasted till Macey burst out in ecstatic tones:

“Oh, I am enjoying of myself!”

Then, after a pause:

“Never had such a glorious day before.”

Another silence, broken by Macey once more, saying in a deferential way:—

“If your excellency feels exhausted by this unwonted exertion, your servant will gladly take an oar.”

Distin ceased rowing, and, balancing the oars a-feather, he said coldly:—

“If you don’t stop that chattering, my good fellow, I’ll either pitch you overboard, or set you ashore to walk home.”

“Thankye,” cried Macey, cheerfully; “but I’ll take the dry, please.”

Distin’s teeth grated together as he sat and scowled at his fellow-pupil, muttering, “Chattering ape;” but he made no effort to put his threats into execution, and kept rowing on, twisting his neck round from time to time, to see which way they were going; Vane and Gilmore went on talking in a low tone; and Macey talked to himself.

“He has made me feel vicious,” he said. “I’m a chattering ape, am I? He’ll pitch me overboard, will he? I’d call him a beast, only it would be so rude. He’d pitch me overboard, would he? Well, I could swim if he did, and that’s more than he could do.”

Macey looked before him at Vane and Gilmore, to see that the former had turned to the side and was thoughtfully dipping his hand in the water, as if paddling.

“Halloo, Weathercock!” he cried. “I know what you’re thinking about.”

“Not you,” cried Vane merrily, as he looked back.

“I do. You were thinking you could invent a machine to send the boat along far better than old West Indies is doing it now.”

Vane stared at him.

“Well,” he said, hesitatingly, “I was not thinking about Distin’s rowing, but I was trying to hit out some way of propelling a boat without steam.”

“Knew it! I knew it! Here, I shan’t read for the bar; I shall study up for a head boss conjurer, thought-reader, and clairvoyant.”

“For goodness’ sake, Gilmore, lean back, and stuff your handkerchief in that chattering pie’s mouth. You had better; it will save me from pitching him into the river.”

Then deep silence fell on the little party, and Macey’s eyes sparkled.

“Yes, he has made me vicious now,” he said to himself; and, as he sat back, he saw something which sent a thought through his brain which made him hug his knees. “Let me see,” he mused: “Vane can swim and dive like an otter, and Gil is better in the water than I am. All right, my boy; you shall pitch me in.”

Then aloud:

“Keep her straight, Distie. Don’t send her nose into the willows.”

The rower looked sharply round, and pulled his right scull. Then, a little further on, Macey shouted:—

“Too much port—pull your right.”

Distin resented this with an angry look; but Macey kept on in the most unruffled way, and, by degrees, as the rower found that it saved him from a great deal of unpleasant screwing round and neck-twisting, he began to obey the commands, and pulled a little harder, so that they travelled more swiftly down the winding stream.

“Port!” shouted Macey. “Port it is! Straight on!”

Then, after a minute,—

“Starboard! More starboard! Straight on!”

Again: “Pull your right—not too much. Both hands;” and Distin calmly and indifferently followed the orders, till it had just occurred to him that the others might as well row now, when Macey shouted again:—

“Right—a little more right; now, both together. That’s the way;” and, as again Distin obeyed, Macey shut his eyes, and drew up his knees. To give a final impetus to the light craft, Distin leaned forward, threw back the blades of the sculls, dipped, and took hold of the water, and then was jerked backwards as the boat struck with a crash on one of the old piles of the ancient bridge, ran up over it a little way, swung round, and directly after capsized, and began to float down stream, leaving its human freight struggling in deep water.

Chapter Six.Distin is Incredulous.“Oh, murder!” shouted Macey, as he rose to the surface, and struck out after the boat, which he reached, and held on by the keel.Gilmore swam after him, and was soon alongside, while Vane made for the bank, climbed out, stood up dripping, and roaring with laughter.“Hi! Gil!—Aleck, bring her ashore,” he cried.“All right!” came back; but almost simultaneously Vane shouted again, in a tone full of horror:—“Here, both of you—Distin—where’s Distin?”He ran along the bank as he spoke, gazing down into the river, but without seeing a sign of that which he sought.Macey’s heart sank within him, as, for the first time, the real significance of that which he had done in carefully guiding the rower on to the old rotten pile came home. A cold chill ran through him, and, for the moment, he clung, speechless and helpless, to the drifting boat.But Vane soon changed all that.“Here, you!” he yelled, “get that boat ashore, turn her over, and come to me—”As he spoke, he ran to and fro upon the bank for a few moments, but, seeing nothing, he paused opposite a deep-looking place, and plunged in, to begin swimming about, raising his head at every stroke, and searching about him, but searching in vain, for their companion, who, as far as he knew, had not risen again to the surface.Meanwhile, Gilmore and Macey tried their best to get the boat ashore, and, after struggling for a few minutes in the shallow close under the bank, they managed to right her, but not without leaving a good deal of water in the bottom. Still she floated as they climbed in and thrust her off, but only for Gilmore to utter a groan of dismay as he grasped the helplessness of their situation.“No oars—no oars!” he cried; and, standing up in the stern, he plunged into the water again, to swim toward where he could see Vane’s head.“What have I done—what have I done!” muttered Macey, wildly. “Oh, poor chap, if he should be drowned!”For a moment he hesitated about following Gilmore, but, as he swept the water with his eyes, he caught sight of something floating, and, sitting down, he used one hand as a paddle, trying to get the boat toward the middle of the river to intercept the floating object, which he had seen to be one of the oars.Vane heard the loud splash, and saw that Gilmore was swimming to his help, then he kept on, looking to right and left in search of their companion; but everywhere there was the eddying water gliding along, and bearing him with it.For a time he had breasted the current, trying to get toward the deeps where the bridge had stood, but he could make no way, and, concluding from this that Distin would have floated down too, he kept on his weary, useless search till Gilmore swam up abreast.“Haven’t seen him?” panted the latter, hoarsely. “Shall we go lower?”“No,” cried Vane; “there must be an eddy along there. Let’s go up again.”They swam ashore, climbed out on to the bank, and, watching the surface as they ran, they made for the spot where the well-paved road had crossed the bridge.Here they stood in silence for a few moments, and Gilmore was about to plunge in again, but Vane stopped him.“No, no,” he cried, breathing heavily the while; “that’s of no use. Wait till we see him rise—if he is here,” he added with a groan.The sun shone brightly on the calm, clear water which here looked black and deep, and after scanning it for some time Vane said quickly—“Look! There, just beyond that black stump.”“No; there is nothing there but a deep hole.”“Yes, but the water goes round and round there, Gil; that must be the place.”He was about to plunge in, but it was Gilmore’s turn to arrest him.“No, no; it would be no use.”“Yes; I’ll dive down.”“But there are old posts and big stones, I daren’t let you go.”“Ah!” shouted Vane wildly; “look—look!”He shook himself free and plunged in as Gilmore caught sight of something close up to the old piece of blackened oak upon which Macey had so cleverly steered the boat. It was only a glimpse of something floating, and then it was gone; and he followed Vane, who was swimming out to the old post. This he reached before Gilmore was half-way, swam round for a few moments, and then paddled like a dog, rose as high as he could, turned over and dived down into the deep black hole.In a few moments he was up again to take a long breath and dive once more.This time he was down longer, and Gilmore held on by the slimy post, gazing about with staring eyes, and prepared himself to dive down after his friend, when all at once, Vane’s white face appeared, and one arm was thrust forth to give a vigorous blow upon the surface.“Got him,” he cried in a half-choked voice, “Gil, help!”Gilmore made for him directly, and as he reached his companion’s side the back of Distin’s head came to the surface, and Gilmore seized him by his long black hair.Their efforts had taken them out of the eddy into the swift stream once more, and they began floating down; Vane so confused and weak from his efforts that he could do nothing but swim feebly, while his companion made some effort to keep Distin’s face above water and direct him toward the side.An easy enough task at another time, for it only meant a swim of some fifty yards, but with the inert body of Distin, and Vane so utterly helpless that he could barely keep himself afloat, Gilmore had hard work, and, swim his best, he could scarcely gain a yard toward the shore. Very soon he found that he was exhausting himself by his efforts and that it would be far better to go down the stream, and trust to getting ashore far lower down, though, at the same time, a chilly feeling of despair began to dull his energies, and it seemed hopeless to think of getting his comrade ashore alive.All the same, though, forced as the words sounded, he told Vane hoarsely that it was all right, and that they would soon get to the side.Vane only answered with a look—a heavy, weary, despairing look—which told how thoroughly he could weigh his friend’s remark, as he held on firmly by Distin and struck out slowly and heavily with the arm at liberty.There was no doubt about Vane’s determination. If he had loosed his hold of Distin, with two arms free he could have saved himself with comparative ease, but that thought never entered his head, as they floated down the river, right in the middle now, and with the trees apparently gliding by them and the verdure and water-growth gradually growing confused and dim. To Vane all now seemed dreamlike and strange. He was in no trouble—there was no sense of dread, and the despair of a few minutes before was blunted, as with his body lower in the water, which kept rising now above his lips, he slowly struggled on.All at once Gilmore shouted wildly,—“Vane—we can’t do it. Let’s swim ashore.”Vane turned his eyes slowly toward him, as if he hardly comprehended his words.“What can I do?” panted Gilmore, who, on his side, was gradually growing more rapid and laboured in the strokes he made; but Vane made no sign, and the three floated down stream, each minute more helpless; and it was now rapidly becoming a certainty that, if Gilmore wished to save his life, he must quit his hold of Distin, and strive his best to reach the bank.“It seems so cowardly,” he groaned; and he looked wildly round for help, but there was none. Then there seemed to be just one chance: the shore looked to be just in front of them, for the river turned here sharply round, forming a loop, and there was a possibility of their being swept right on to the bank.Vain hope! The stream swept round to their right, bearing them toward the other shore, against which it impinged, and then shot off with increased speed away for the other side; and, though they were carried almost within grasping distance of a tree whose boughs hung down to kiss the swift waters, the nearest was just beyond Gilmore’s reach, as he raised his hand, which fell back with a splash, as they were borne right out, now toward the middle once more, and round the bend.“I can’t help it. Must let go,” thought Gilmore. “I’m done.” Then aloud:“Vane, old chap! let go. Let’s swim ashore;” and then he shuddered, for Vane’s eyes had a dull, half-glazed stare, and his lips, nostrils,—the greater part of his face, sank below the stream. “Oh, help!” groaned Gilmore; “he has gone:” and, loosing his hold of Distin, he made a snatch atVane, who was slowly sinking, the current turning him face downward, and rolling him slowly over.But Gilmore made a desperate snatch, and caught him by the sleeve as Vane rose again with his head thrown back and one arm rising above the water, clutching frantically at vacancy.The weight of that arm was sufficient to send him beneath the surface again, and Gilmore’s desperate struggle to keep him afloat resulted in his going under in turn, losing his presence of mind, and beginning to struggle wildly as he, too, strove to catch at something to keep himself up.Another few moments and all would have been over, but the clutch did not prove to be at vacancy. Far from it. A hand was thrust into his, and as he was drawn up, a familiar voice shouted in his singing ears, where the water had been thundering the moment before:“Catch hold of the side,” was shouted; and his fingers involuntarily closed on the gunwale of the boat, while Macey reached out and seized Vane by the collar, drew him to the boat, or the boat to him, and guided the drowning lad’s cramped hand to the gunwale too.“Now!” he shouted; “can you hold on?”There was no answer from either, and Macey hesitated for a few moments, but, seeing how desperate a grip both now had, he seized one of the recovered sculls, thrust it out over the rowlock, and pulled and paddled first at the side, then over the stern till, by help of the current, he guided the boat with its clinging freight into shallow water where he leaped overboard, seized Gilmore, and dragged him right up the sandy shallow to where his head lay clear. He then went back and seized Vane in turn, after literally unhooking his cramped fingers from the side, and dragged him through the shallow water a few yards, before he realised that his fellow-pupil’s other hand was fixed, with what for the moment looked to be a death-grip, in Distin’s clothes.This task was more difficult, but by the time he had dragged Vane alongside of Gilmore, the latter was slowly struggling up to his feet; and in a confused, staggering way he lent a hand to get Vane’s head well clear of the water on to the warm dry pebbles, and then between them they dragged Distin right out beyond the pebbles on to the grass.“One moment,” cried Macey, and he dashed into the water again just in time to catch hold of the boat, which was slowly floating away. Then wading back he got hold of the chain, and twisted it round a little blackthorn bush on the bank.“I’m better now,” gasped Gilmore. And then, “Oh, Aleck, Aleck, they’re both dead!”“They aren’t,” shouted Macey fiercely. “Look! Old Weathercock’s moving his eyes, but I’m afraid of poor old Colonist. Here, hi, Vane, old man! You ain’t dead, are you? Catch hold, Gil, like this, under his arm. Now, together off!”They seized Vane, and, raising his head and shoulders, dragged him up on to the grass, near where Distin lay, apparently past all help, and a groan escaped from Gilmore’s lips, as, rapidly regaining his strength and energy, he dropped on his knees beside him.“It’s all right,” shouted Macey, excitedly, when a whisper would have done. “Weathercock’s beginning to revive again. Hooray, old Vane! You’ll do. We must go to Distie.”Vane could not speak, but he made a sign, which they interpreted to mean, go; and the next moment they were on their knees by Distin’s side, trying what seemed to be the hopeless task of reviving him. For the lad’s face looked ghastly in the extreme; and, though Macey felt his breast and throat, there was not the faintest pulsation perceptible.But they lost no time; and Gilmore, who was minute by minute growing stronger, joined in his companion’s efforts at resuscitation from a few rather hazy recollections of a paper he had once read respecting the efforts to be made with the apparently drowned.Everything was against them. They had no hot flannels or water-bottles to apply to the subject’s feet, no blankets in which to wrap him, nothing but sunshine, as Macey began. After doubling up a couple of wet jackets into a cushion and putting them under Distin’s back, he placed himself kneeling behind the poor fellow’s head, seized his arms, pressed them hard against his sides, and then drew them out to their full stretch, so as to try and produce respiration by alternately compressing and expanding the chest.He kept on till he grew so tired that his motions grew slow; and then he gave place to Gilmore, who carried on the process eagerly, while Macey went to see how Vane progressed, finding him able to speak now in a whisper.“How is Distin?” he whispered.“Bad,” said Macey, laconically.“Not dead!” cried Vane, frantically.“Not yet,” was the reply; “but I wouldn’t give much for the poor fellow’s chance. Oh, Vane, old chap, do come round, and help. You are so clever, and know such lots of things. I shall never be happy again if he dies.”For answer to this appeal Vane sat up, but turned so giddy that he lay back again.“I’ll come and try as soon as I can,” he said, feebly. “All the strength has gone out of me.”“Let me help you,” cried Macey; and he drew Vane into a sitting position, but had to leave him and relieve Gilmore, whose arms were failing fast.Macey took his place, and began with renewed vigour at what seemed to be a perfectly hopeless task, while Gilmore went to Vane.“It’s no good,” muttered Macey, whose heart was full of remorse; and a terrible feeling of despair came over him. “It’s of no use, but I will try and try till I drop. Oh, if I could only bring him to, I’d never say an unkind word to him again!”He threw himself into his task, working Distin’s thin arms up and down with all his might, listening intently the while for some faint suggestion of breathing, but all in vain; the arms he held were cold and dank, and the face upon which he looked down, seeing it in reverse, was horribly ghastly and grotesque.“I don’t like him,” continued Macey, to himself, as he toiled away; “I never did like him, and I never shall, but I think I’d sooner it was me lying here than him. And me the cause of it all.”“Poor old Distie!” he went on. “I suppose he couldn’t help his temper. It was his nature, and he came from a foreign country. How could I be such a fool? Nearly drowned us all.”He bent over Distin at every pressure of the arms, close to the poor fellow’s side; and, as he hung over him, the great tears gathered in his eyes, and, in a choking voice, he muttered aloud:—“I didn’t mean it, old chap. It was only to give you a ducking for being so disagreeable; indeed, indeed, I wish it had been me.”“Oh, I say,” cried a voice at his ear; “don’t take on like that, old fellow. We’ll bring him round yet. Vane’s getting all right fast.”“I can’t help it, Gil, old chap,” said Macey, in a husky whisper; “it is so horrible to see him like this.”“But I tell you we shall bring him round. You’re tired, and out of heart. Let me take another turn.”“No, I’m not tired yet,” said Macey, recovering himself, and speaking more steadily. “I’ll keep on. You feel his heart again.”He accommodated his movements to his companion’s, and Gilmore kept his hand on Distin’s breast, but he withdrew it again without a word; and, as Macey saw the despair and the hopeless look on the lad’s face, his own heart sank lower, and his arms felt as if all the power had gone.But, with a jerk, he recommenced working Distin’s arms up and down with the regular pumping motion, till he could do no more, and he again made way for Gilmore.He was turning to Vane, but felt a touch on his shoulder, and, looking round, it was to gaze in the lad’s grave face.“How is he?”“Oh, bad as bad can be. Do, pray, try and save him, Vane. We mustn’t let him die.”Vane breathed hard, and went to Distin’s side, kneeling down to feel his throat, and looking more serious as he rose.“Let me try now,” he whispered, but Gilmore shook his head.“You’re too weak,” he said. “Wait a bit.”Vane waited, and at last they were glad to let him take his turn, when the toil drove off the terrible chill from which he was suffering, and he worked at the artificial respiration plan, growing stronger every minute.Again he resumed the task in his turn, and then again, after quite an hour of incessant effort had been persisted in; while now the feeling was becoming stronger in all their breasts that they had tried in vain, for there was no more chance.“If we could have had him in a bed, we might have done some good,” said Gilmore, sadly. “Vane, old fellow, I’m afraid you must give it up.”But, instead of ceasing his efforts, the lad tried the harder, and, in a tone of intense excitement, he panted:—“Look!”“At what?” cried Macey, eagerly; and then, going down on his knees, he thrust in his hand beneath the lad’s shirt.“Yes! you can feel it. Keep on, Vane, keep on.”“What!” shouted Gilmore; and then he gave a joyful cry, for there was a trembling about one of Distin’s eyelids, and a quarter of an hour later they saw him open his eyes, and begin to stare wonderingly round.It was only for a few moments, and then they closed again, as if the spark of the fire of life that had been trembling had died out because there had been a slight cessation of the efforts to produce it.But there was no farther relaxation. All, in turn, worked hard, full of excitement at the fruit borne by their efforts; and, at last, while Vane was striving his best, the patient’s eyes were opened, gazed round once more, blankly and wonderingly, till they rested upon Vane’s face, when memory reasserted itself, and an unpleasant frown darkened the Creole’s countenance.“Don’t,” he cried, angrily, in a curiously weak, harsh voice, quite different from his usual tones; and he dragged himself away, and tried to rise, but sank back.Vane quitted his place, and made way for Macey, whose turn it would have been to continue their efforts, but Distin gave himself a jerk, and fixed his eyes on Gilmore, who raised him by passing one hand beneath his shoulders.“Better?”“Better? What do you mean? I haven’t— Ah! How was it the boat upset?”There was no reply, and Distin spoke again, in a singularly irritable way.“I said, how was it the boat upset? Did someone run into us?”“You rowed right upon one of the old posts,” replied Gilmore, and Distin gazed at him fixedly, while Macey shrank back a little, and then looked furtively from Vane to Gilmore, and back again at Distin, who fixed his eyes upon him searchingly, but did not speak for some time.“Here,” he said at last; “give me your hand. I can’t sit here in these wet things.”“Can you stand?” said Gilmore, eagerly.“Of course I can stand. Why shouldn’t I? Because I’m wet? Oh!”He clapped his hands to his head, and bowed down a little.“Are you in pain?” asked Gilmore, with solicitude.“Of course I am,” snarled Distin; “any fool could see that. I must have struck my head, I suppose.”“He doesn’t suspect me,” thought Macey, with a long-drawn breath full of relief.“Here, I’ll try again,” continued Distin. “Where’s the boat? I want to get back, and change these wet things. Oh! my head aches as if it would split!”Gilmore offered his hand again, and, forgetting everything in his desire to help one in pain and distress, Vane ranged up on the other side, and was about to take Distin’s arm.But the lad shrank from him fiercely.“I can manage,” he said. “I don’t want to be hauled and pulled about like a child. Now, Gil, steady. Let’s get into the boat. I want to lie down in the stern.”“Wait a minute or two; she’s half full of water,” cried Macey, who was longing to do something helpful. “Come on, Vane.”The latter went to his help, and they drew the boat closer in.“Oh, I say,” whispered the lad, “isn’t old Dis in a temper?”“Yes; I’ve heard that people who have been nearly drowned are terribly irritable when they come to,” replied Vane, in the same tone. “Never mind, we’ve saved his life.”“You did,” said Macey.“Nonsense; we all did.”“No; we two didn’t dive down in the black pool, and fetch him up. Oh, I say, Vane, what a day! If this is coming out for pleasure I’ll stop at home next time. Now then, together.”They pulled together, and by degrees lightened the boat of more and more water, till they were able to get it quite ashore, and drain out the last drops over the side. Then launching again, and replacing the oars, Macey gave his head a rub.“We shall have to buy the miller a new boat-hook,” he said. “I suppose the iron on the end of the pole was so heavy that it took the thing down. I never saw it again. Pretty hunt I had for the sculls. I got one, but was ever so long before I could find the other.”“You only just got to us in time,” said Vane, with a sigh; and he looked painfully in his companion’s eyes.“Oh, I say, don’t look at a fellow like that,” said Macey. “I am sorry—I am, indeed.”Vane was silent, but still looked at his fellow-pupil steadily.“Don’t ever split upon me, old chap,” continued Macey; “and I’ll own it all to you. I thought it would only be a bit of a lark to give him a ducking, for he had been—and no mistake—too disagreeable for us to put up with it any longer.”“Then you did keep on telling him which hand to pull and steered him on to the pile?”Macey was silent.“If you did, own to it like a man, Aleck.”“Yes, I will—to you, Vane. I did, for I thought it would be such a game to see him overboard, and I felt it would only be a wetting for us. I never thought of it turning out as it did.”He ceased speaking, and Vane stood gazing straight before him for a few moments.“No,” he said, at last, “you couldn’t have thought that it would turn out like it did.”“No, ’pon my word, I didn’t.”“And we might have had to go back and tell Syme that one of his pupils was dead. Oh, Aleck, if it had been so!”“Yes, but don’t you turn upon me, Vane. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it; and I’ll never try such a trick as that again.”“Ready there?” cried Gilmore.“Yes; all right,” shouted Macey. Then, in a whisper, “Don’t tell Distie. He’d never forgive me. Here they come.”For, sallow, and with his teeth chattering, Distin came toward them, leaning on Gilmore’s arm; but, as he reached the boat, he drew himself up, and looked fixedly in Vane’s face.“You needn’t try to plot any more,” he said, “for I shall be aware of you next time.”“Plot?” stammered Vane, who was completely taken aback. “I don’t know what you mean.”“Of course not,” said Distin, bitterly. “You are such a genius—so clever. You wouldn’t set that idiot Macey to tell me which hand to pull, so as to overset the boat. But I’ll be even with you yet.”“I wouldn’t, I swear,” cried Vane, sharply.“Oh, no; not likely. You are too straightforward and generous. But I’m not blind: I can see; and if punishment can follow for your cowardly trick, you shall have it. Come, Gil, you and I will row back together. It will warm us, and we can be on our guard against treachery this time.”He stepped into the boat, staggered, and would have fallen overboard, had not Vane caught his arm; but, as soon as he had recovered his balance, he shook himself free resentfully and seated himself on the forward thwart.“Jump in,” said Gilmore, in a low voice.“Yes, jump in, Mr Vane Lee, and be good enough to go right to the stern. You did not succeed in drowning me this time; and, mind this, if you try any tricks on our way back, I’ll give you the oar across the head. You cowardly, treacherous bit of scum!”“No, he isn’t,” said Macey, boldly, “and you’re all out of it, clever as you are. It was not Vane’s doing, the running on the pile, but mine. I did it to take some of the conceit and bullying out of you, so you may say and do what you like.”“Oh, yes, I knew you did it,” sneered Distin; “but there are not brains enough in your head to originate such a dastardly trick. That was Vane Lee’s doing, and he’ll hear of it another time, as sure as my name’s Distin.”“I tell you it was my own doing entirely,” cried Macey, flushing up; “and I’ll tell you something else. I’m glad I did it—so there. For you deserved it, and you deserve another for being such a cad.”“What do you mean?” cried Distin, threateningly. “What I say, you ungrateful, un-English humbug. You were drowning; you couldn’t be found, and you wouldn’t have been here now, if it hadn’t been for old Weathercock diving down and fetching you up, and then, half-dead himself, working so hard to help save your life.”“I don’t believe it,” snarled Distin.“Don’t,” said Macey, as he thrust the boat from the side, throwing himself forward at the same time, so that he rode out on his chest, and then wriggled in, to seat himself close by Vane, while Gilmore and Distin began to row hard, so as to get some warmth into their chilled bodies.They went on in silence for some time, and then Macey leaped up.“Now, Vane,” he cried; “it’s our turn.”“Sit down,” roared Distin.“Don’t, Aleck,” said Vane, firmly. “You are quite right. We want to warm ourselves too. Come, Gil, and take my place.”“Sit down!” roared Distin again; but Gilmore exchanged places with Vane, and Macey stepped forward, and took hold of Distin’s oar.“Now then, give it up,” he said; and, utterly cowed by the firmness of the two lads, Distin stepped over the thwart by Vane, and went and seated himself by Gilmore.“Ready?” cried Macey.“Yes.”“You pull as hard as you can, and let’s send these shivers out of us. You call out, Gil, and steer us, for we don’t want to have to look round.”They bent their backs to their work, and sent the boat flying through the water, Gilmore shouting a hint from time to time, with the result that they came in sight of the mill much sooner than they had expected, and Gilmore looked out anxiously, hoping to get the boat moored unseen, so that they could hurry off and get to the rectory by the fields, so that their drenched condition should not be noticed.But, just as they approached the big willows, a window in the mill was thrown open, the loud clacking and the roar of the machinery reached their ears, and there was the great, full face of the miller grinning down at them.“Why, hallo!” he shouted; “what game’s this? Been fishing?”“No,” said Vane, quietly; “we—”But, before he could finish, the miller roared:—“Oh, I see, you’ve been bathing; and, as you had no towels, you kept your clothes on. I say, hang it all, my lads, didst ta capsize the boat?”“No,” said Vane, quietly, as he leaped ashore with the chain; “we had a misfortune, and ran on one of those big stumps up the river.”“Hey? What, up yonder by old brigg?”“Yes.”“Hang it all, lads, come into the cottage, and I’ll send on to fetch your dry clothes. Hey, but it’s a bad job. Mustn’t let you catch cold. Here, hi! Mrs Lasby. Kettle hot?”“Yes, Mester,” came from the cottage.“Then set to, and make the young gents a whole jorum of good hot tea.”The miller hurried the little party into the cottage, where the kitchen-fire was heaped up with brushwood and logs, about which the boys stood, and steamed, drinking plenteously of hot tea the while, till the messenger returned with their dry clothes, and, after the change had been made, their host counselled a sharp run home, to keep up the circulation, undertaking to send the wet things back himself.

“Oh, murder!” shouted Macey, as he rose to the surface, and struck out after the boat, which he reached, and held on by the keel.

Gilmore swam after him, and was soon alongside, while Vane made for the bank, climbed out, stood up dripping, and roaring with laughter.

“Hi! Gil!—Aleck, bring her ashore,” he cried.

“All right!” came back; but almost simultaneously Vane shouted again, in a tone full of horror:—

“Here, both of you—Distin—where’s Distin?”

He ran along the bank as he spoke, gazing down into the river, but without seeing a sign of that which he sought.

Macey’s heart sank within him, as, for the first time, the real significance of that which he had done in carefully guiding the rower on to the old rotten pile came home. A cold chill ran through him, and, for the moment, he clung, speechless and helpless, to the drifting boat.

But Vane soon changed all that.

“Here, you!” he yelled, “get that boat ashore, turn her over, and come to me—”

As he spoke, he ran to and fro upon the bank for a few moments, but, seeing nothing, he paused opposite a deep-looking place, and plunged in, to begin swimming about, raising his head at every stroke, and searching about him, but searching in vain, for their companion, who, as far as he knew, had not risen again to the surface.

Meanwhile, Gilmore and Macey tried their best to get the boat ashore, and, after struggling for a few minutes in the shallow close under the bank, they managed to right her, but not without leaving a good deal of water in the bottom. Still she floated as they climbed in and thrust her off, but only for Gilmore to utter a groan of dismay as he grasped the helplessness of their situation.

“No oars—no oars!” he cried; and, standing up in the stern, he plunged into the water again, to swim toward where he could see Vane’s head.

“What have I done—what have I done!” muttered Macey, wildly. “Oh, poor chap, if he should be drowned!”

For a moment he hesitated about following Gilmore, but, as he swept the water with his eyes, he caught sight of something floating, and, sitting down, he used one hand as a paddle, trying to get the boat toward the middle of the river to intercept the floating object, which he had seen to be one of the oars.

Vane heard the loud splash, and saw that Gilmore was swimming to his help, then he kept on, looking to right and left in search of their companion; but everywhere there was the eddying water gliding along, and bearing him with it.

For a time he had breasted the current, trying to get toward the deeps where the bridge had stood, but he could make no way, and, concluding from this that Distin would have floated down too, he kept on his weary, useless search till Gilmore swam up abreast.

“Haven’t seen him?” panted the latter, hoarsely. “Shall we go lower?”

“No,” cried Vane; “there must be an eddy along there. Let’s go up again.”

They swam ashore, climbed out on to the bank, and, watching the surface as they ran, they made for the spot where the well-paved road had crossed the bridge.

Here they stood in silence for a few moments, and Gilmore was about to plunge in again, but Vane stopped him.

“No, no,” he cried, breathing heavily the while; “that’s of no use. Wait till we see him rise—if he is here,” he added with a groan.

The sun shone brightly on the calm, clear water which here looked black and deep, and after scanning it for some time Vane said quickly—

“Look! There, just beyond that black stump.”

“No; there is nothing there but a deep hole.”

“Yes, but the water goes round and round there, Gil; that must be the place.”

He was about to plunge in, but it was Gilmore’s turn to arrest him.

“No, no; it would be no use.”

“Yes; I’ll dive down.”

“But there are old posts and big stones, I daren’t let you go.”

“Ah!” shouted Vane wildly; “look—look!”

He shook himself free and plunged in as Gilmore caught sight of something close up to the old piece of blackened oak upon which Macey had so cleverly steered the boat. It was only a glimpse of something floating, and then it was gone; and he followed Vane, who was swimming out to the old post. This he reached before Gilmore was half-way, swam round for a few moments, and then paddled like a dog, rose as high as he could, turned over and dived down into the deep black hole.

In a few moments he was up again to take a long breath and dive once more.

This time he was down longer, and Gilmore held on by the slimy post, gazing about with staring eyes, and prepared himself to dive down after his friend, when all at once, Vane’s white face appeared, and one arm was thrust forth to give a vigorous blow upon the surface.

“Got him,” he cried in a half-choked voice, “Gil, help!”

Gilmore made for him directly, and as he reached his companion’s side the back of Distin’s head came to the surface, and Gilmore seized him by his long black hair.

Their efforts had taken them out of the eddy into the swift stream once more, and they began floating down; Vane so confused and weak from his efforts that he could do nothing but swim feebly, while his companion made some effort to keep Distin’s face above water and direct him toward the side.

An easy enough task at another time, for it only meant a swim of some fifty yards, but with the inert body of Distin, and Vane so utterly helpless that he could barely keep himself afloat, Gilmore had hard work, and, swim his best, he could scarcely gain a yard toward the shore. Very soon he found that he was exhausting himself by his efforts and that it would be far better to go down the stream, and trust to getting ashore far lower down, though, at the same time, a chilly feeling of despair began to dull his energies, and it seemed hopeless to think of getting his comrade ashore alive.

All the same, though, forced as the words sounded, he told Vane hoarsely that it was all right, and that they would soon get to the side.

Vane only answered with a look—a heavy, weary, despairing look—which told how thoroughly he could weigh his friend’s remark, as he held on firmly by Distin and struck out slowly and heavily with the arm at liberty.

There was no doubt about Vane’s determination. If he had loosed his hold of Distin, with two arms free he could have saved himself with comparative ease, but that thought never entered his head, as they floated down the river, right in the middle now, and with the trees apparently gliding by them and the verdure and water-growth gradually growing confused and dim. To Vane all now seemed dreamlike and strange. He was in no trouble—there was no sense of dread, and the despair of a few minutes before was blunted, as with his body lower in the water, which kept rising now above his lips, he slowly struggled on.

All at once Gilmore shouted wildly,—

“Vane—we can’t do it. Let’s swim ashore.”

Vane turned his eyes slowly toward him, as if he hardly comprehended his words.

“What can I do?” panted Gilmore, who, on his side, was gradually growing more rapid and laboured in the strokes he made; but Vane made no sign, and the three floated down stream, each minute more helpless; and it was now rapidly becoming a certainty that, if Gilmore wished to save his life, he must quit his hold of Distin, and strive his best to reach the bank.

“It seems so cowardly,” he groaned; and he looked wildly round for help, but there was none. Then there seemed to be just one chance: the shore looked to be just in front of them, for the river turned here sharply round, forming a loop, and there was a possibility of their being swept right on to the bank.

Vain hope! The stream swept round to their right, bearing them toward the other shore, against which it impinged, and then shot off with increased speed away for the other side; and, though they were carried almost within grasping distance of a tree whose boughs hung down to kiss the swift waters, the nearest was just beyond Gilmore’s reach, as he raised his hand, which fell back with a splash, as they were borne right out, now toward the middle once more, and round the bend.

“I can’t help it. Must let go,” thought Gilmore. “I’m done.” Then aloud:

“Vane, old chap! let go. Let’s swim ashore;” and then he shuddered, for Vane’s eyes had a dull, half-glazed stare, and his lips, nostrils,—the greater part of his face, sank below the stream. “Oh, help!” groaned Gilmore; “he has gone:” and, loosing his hold of Distin, he made a snatch atVane, who was slowly sinking, the current turning him face downward, and rolling him slowly over.

But Gilmore made a desperate snatch, and caught him by the sleeve as Vane rose again with his head thrown back and one arm rising above the water, clutching frantically at vacancy.

The weight of that arm was sufficient to send him beneath the surface again, and Gilmore’s desperate struggle to keep him afloat resulted in his going under in turn, losing his presence of mind, and beginning to struggle wildly as he, too, strove to catch at something to keep himself up.

Another few moments and all would have been over, but the clutch did not prove to be at vacancy. Far from it. A hand was thrust into his, and as he was drawn up, a familiar voice shouted in his singing ears, where the water had been thundering the moment before:

“Catch hold of the side,” was shouted; and his fingers involuntarily closed on the gunwale of the boat, while Macey reached out and seized Vane by the collar, drew him to the boat, or the boat to him, and guided the drowning lad’s cramped hand to the gunwale too.

“Now!” he shouted; “can you hold on?”

There was no answer from either, and Macey hesitated for a few moments, but, seeing how desperate a grip both now had, he seized one of the recovered sculls, thrust it out over the rowlock, and pulled and paddled first at the side, then over the stern till, by help of the current, he guided the boat with its clinging freight into shallow water where he leaped overboard, seized Gilmore, and dragged him right up the sandy shallow to where his head lay clear. He then went back and seized Vane in turn, after literally unhooking his cramped fingers from the side, and dragged him through the shallow water a few yards, before he realised that his fellow-pupil’s other hand was fixed, with what for the moment looked to be a death-grip, in Distin’s clothes.

This task was more difficult, but by the time he had dragged Vane alongside of Gilmore, the latter was slowly struggling up to his feet; and in a confused, staggering way he lent a hand to get Vane’s head well clear of the water on to the warm dry pebbles, and then between them they dragged Distin right out beyond the pebbles on to the grass.

“One moment,” cried Macey, and he dashed into the water again just in time to catch hold of the boat, which was slowly floating away. Then wading back he got hold of the chain, and twisted it round a little blackthorn bush on the bank.

“I’m better now,” gasped Gilmore. And then, “Oh, Aleck, Aleck, they’re both dead!”

“They aren’t,” shouted Macey fiercely. “Look! Old Weathercock’s moving his eyes, but I’m afraid of poor old Colonist. Here, hi, Vane, old man! You ain’t dead, are you? Catch hold, Gil, like this, under his arm. Now, together off!”

They seized Vane, and, raising his head and shoulders, dragged him up on to the grass, near where Distin lay, apparently past all help, and a groan escaped from Gilmore’s lips, as, rapidly regaining his strength and energy, he dropped on his knees beside him.

“It’s all right,” shouted Macey, excitedly, when a whisper would have done. “Weathercock’s beginning to revive again. Hooray, old Vane! You’ll do. We must go to Distie.”

Vane could not speak, but he made a sign, which they interpreted to mean, go; and the next moment they were on their knees by Distin’s side, trying what seemed to be the hopeless task of reviving him. For the lad’s face looked ghastly in the extreme; and, though Macey felt his breast and throat, there was not the faintest pulsation perceptible.

But they lost no time; and Gilmore, who was minute by minute growing stronger, joined in his companion’s efforts at resuscitation from a few rather hazy recollections of a paper he had once read respecting the efforts to be made with the apparently drowned.

Everything was against them. They had no hot flannels or water-bottles to apply to the subject’s feet, no blankets in which to wrap him, nothing but sunshine, as Macey began. After doubling up a couple of wet jackets into a cushion and putting them under Distin’s back, he placed himself kneeling behind the poor fellow’s head, seized his arms, pressed them hard against his sides, and then drew them out to their full stretch, so as to try and produce respiration by alternately compressing and expanding the chest.

He kept on till he grew so tired that his motions grew slow; and then he gave place to Gilmore, who carried on the process eagerly, while Macey went to see how Vane progressed, finding him able to speak now in a whisper.

“How is Distin?” he whispered.

“Bad,” said Macey, laconically.

“Not dead!” cried Vane, frantically.

“Not yet,” was the reply; “but I wouldn’t give much for the poor fellow’s chance. Oh, Vane, old chap, do come round, and help. You are so clever, and know such lots of things. I shall never be happy again if he dies.”

For answer to this appeal Vane sat up, but turned so giddy that he lay back again.

“I’ll come and try as soon as I can,” he said, feebly. “All the strength has gone out of me.”

“Let me help you,” cried Macey; and he drew Vane into a sitting position, but had to leave him and relieve Gilmore, whose arms were failing fast.

Macey took his place, and began with renewed vigour at what seemed to be a perfectly hopeless task, while Gilmore went to Vane.

“It’s no good,” muttered Macey, whose heart was full of remorse; and a terrible feeling of despair came over him. “It’s of no use, but I will try and try till I drop. Oh, if I could only bring him to, I’d never say an unkind word to him again!”

He threw himself into his task, working Distin’s thin arms up and down with all his might, listening intently the while for some faint suggestion of breathing, but all in vain; the arms he held were cold and dank, and the face upon which he looked down, seeing it in reverse, was horribly ghastly and grotesque.

“I don’t like him,” continued Macey, to himself, as he toiled away; “I never did like him, and I never shall, but I think I’d sooner it was me lying here than him. And me the cause of it all.”

“Poor old Distie!” he went on. “I suppose he couldn’t help his temper. It was his nature, and he came from a foreign country. How could I be such a fool? Nearly drowned us all.”

He bent over Distin at every pressure of the arms, close to the poor fellow’s side; and, as he hung over him, the great tears gathered in his eyes, and, in a choking voice, he muttered aloud:—

“I didn’t mean it, old chap. It was only to give you a ducking for being so disagreeable; indeed, indeed, I wish it had been me.”

“Oh, I say,” cried a voice at his ear; “don’t take on like that, old fellow. We’ll bring him round yet. Vane’s getting all right fast.”

“I can’t help it, Gil, old chap,” said Macey, in a husky whisper; “it is so horrible to see him like this.”

“But I tell you we shall bring him round. You’re tired, and out of heart. Let me take another turn.”

“No, I’m not tired yet,” said Macey, recovering himself, and speaking more steadily. “I’ll keep on. You feel his heart again.”

He accommodated his movements to his companion’s, and Gilmore kept his hand on Distin’s breast, but he withdrew it again without a word; and, as Macey saw the despair and the hopeless look on the lad’s face, his own heart sank lower, and his arms felt as if all the power had gone.

But, with a jerk, he recommenced working Distin’s arms up and down with the regular pumping motion, till he could do no more, and he again made way for Gilmore.

He was turning to Vane, but felt a touch on his shoulder, and, looking round, it was to gaze in the lad’s grave face.

“How is he?”

“Oh, bad as bad can be. Do, pray, try and save him, Vane. We mustn’t let him die.”

Vane breathed hard, and went to Distin’s side, kneeling down to feel his throat, and looking more serious as he rose.

“Let me try now,” he whispered, but Gilmore shook his head.

“You’re too weak,” he said. “Wait a bit.”

Vane waited, and at last they were glad to let him take his turn, when the toil drove off the terrible chill from which he was suffering, and he worked at the artificial respiration plan, growing stronger every minute.

Again he resumed the task in his turn, and then again, after quite an hour of incessant effort had been persisted in; while now the feeling was becoming stronger in all their breasts that they had tried in vain, for there was no more chance.

“If we could have had him in a bed, we might have done some good,” said Gilmore, sadly. “Vane, old fellow, I’m afraid you must give it up.”

But, instead of ceasing his efforts, the lad tried the harder, and, in a tone of intense excitement, he panted:—

“Look!”

“At what?” cried Macey, eagerly; and then, going down on his knees, he thrust in his hand beneath the lad’s shirt.

“Yes! you can feel it. Keep on, Vane, keep on.”

“What!” shouted Gilmore; and then he gave a joyful cry, for there was a trembling about one of Distin’s eyelids, and a quarter of an hour later they saw him open his eyes, and begin to stare wonderingly round.

It was only for a few moments, and then they closed again, as if the spark of the fire of life that had been trembling had died out because there had been a slight cessation of the efforts to produce it.

But there was no farther relaxation. All, in turn, worked hard, full of excitement at the fruit borne by their efforts; and, at last, while Vane was striving his best, the patient’s eyes were opened, gazed round once more, blankly and wonderingly, till they rested upon Vane’s face, when memory reasserted itself, and an unpleasant frown darkened the Creole’s countenance.

“Don’t,” he cried, angrily, in a curiously weak, harsh voice, quite different from his usual tones; and he dragged himself away, and tried to rise, but sank back.

Vane quitted his place, and made way for Macey, whose turn it would have been to continue their efforts, but Distin gave himself a jerk, and fixed his eyes on Gilmore, who raised him by passing one hand beneath his shoulders.

“Better?”

“Better? What do you mean? I haven’t— Ah! How was it the boat upset?”

There was no reply, and Distin spoke again, in a singularly irritable way.

“I said, how was it the boat upset? Did someone run into us?”

“You rowed right upon one of the old posts,” replied Gilmore, and Distin gazed at him fixedly, while Macey shrank back a little, and then looked furtively from Vane to Gilmore, and back again at Distin, who fixed his eyes upon him searchingly, but did not speak for some time.

“Here,” he said at last; “give me your hand. I can’t sit here in these wet things.”

“Can you stand?” said Gilmore, eagerly.

“Of course I can stand. Why shouldn’t I? Because I’m wet? Oh!”

He clapped his hands to his head, and bowed down a little.

“Are you in pain?” asked Gilmore, with solicitude.

“Of course I am,” snarled Distin; “any fool could see that. I must have struck my head, I suppose.”

“He doesn’t suspect me,” thought Macey, with a long-drawn breath full of relief.

“Here, I’ll try again,” continued Distin. “Where’s the boat? I want to get back, and change these wet things. Oh! my head aches as if it would split!”

Gilmore offered his hand again, and, forgetting everything in his desire to help one in pain and distress, Vane ranged up on the other side, and was about to take Distin’s arm.

But the lad shrank from him fiercely.

“I can manage,” he said. “I don’t want to be hauled and pulled about like a child. Now, Gil, steady. Let’s get into the boat. I want to lie down in the stern.”

“Wait a minute or two; she’s half full of water,” cried Macey, who was longing to do something helpful. “Come on, Vane.”

The latter went to his help, and they drew the boat closer in.

“Oh, I say,” whispered the lad, “isn’t old Dis in a temper?”

“Yes; I’ve heard that people who have been nearly drowned are terribly irritable when they come to,” replied Vane, in the same tone. “Never mind, we’ve saved his life.”

“You did,” said Macey.

“Nonsense; we all did.”

“No; we two didn’t dive down in the black pool, and fetch him up. Oh, I say, Vane, what a day! If this is coming out for pleasure I’ll stop at home next time. Now then, together.”

They pulled together, and by degrees lightened the boat of more and more water, till they were able to get it quite ashore, and drain out the last drops over the side. Then launching again, and replacing the oars, Macey gave his head a rub.

“We shall have to buy the miller a new boat-hook,” he said. “I suppose the iron on the end of the pole was so heavy that it took the thing down. I never saw it again. Pretty hunt I had for the sculls. I got one, but was ever so long before I could find the other.”

“You only just got to us in time,” said Vane, with a sigh; and he looked painfully in his companion’s eyes.

“Oh, I say, don’t look at a fellow like that,” said Macey. “I am sorry—I am, indeed.”

Vane was silent, but still looked at his fellow-pupil steadily.

“Don’t ever split upon me, old chap,” continued Macey; “and I’ll own it all to you. I thought it would only be a bit of a lark to give him a ducking, for he had been—and no mistake—too disagreeable for us to put up with it any longer.”

“Then you did keep on telling him which hand to pull and steered him on to the pile?”

Macey was silent.

“If you did, own to it like a man, Aleck.”

“Yes, I will—to you, Vane. I did, for I thought it would be such a game to see him overboard, and I felt it would only be a wetting for us. I never thought of it turning out as it did.”

He ceased speaking, and Vane stood gazing straight before him for a few moments.

“No,” he said, at last, “you couldn’t have thought that it would turn out like it did.”

“No, ’pon my word, I didn’t.”

“And we might have had to go back and tell Syme that one of his pupils was dead. Oh, Aleck, if it had been so!”

“Yes, but don’t you turn upon me, Vane. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it; and I’ll never try such a trick as that again.”

“Ready there?” cried Gilmore.

“Yes; all right,” shouted Macey. Then, in a whisper, “Don’t tell Distie. He’d never forgive me. Here they come.”

For, sallow, and with his teeth chattering, Distin came toward them, leaning on Gilmore’s arm; but, as he reached the boat, he drew himself up, and looked fixedly in Vane’s face.

“You needn’t try to plot any more,” he said, “for I shall be aware of you next time.”

“Plot?” stammered Vane, who was completely taken aback. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course not,” said Distin, bitterly. “You are such a genius—so clever. You wouldn’t set that idiot Macey to tell me which hand to pull, so as to overset the boat. But I’ll be even with you yet.”

“I wouldn’t, I swear,” cried Vane, sharply.

“Oh, no; not likely. You are too straightforward and generous. But I’m not blind: I can see; and if punishment can follow for your cowardly trick, you shall have it. Come, Gil, you and I will row back together. It will warm us, and we can be on our guard against treachery this time.”

He stepped into the boat, staggered, and would have fallen overboard, had not Vane caught his arm; but, as soon as he had recovered his balance, he shook himself free resentfully and seated himself on the forward thwart.

“Jump in,” said Gilmore, in a low voice.

“Yes, jump in, Mr Vane Lee, and be good enough to go right to the stern. You did not succeed in drowning me this time; and, mind this, if you try any tricks on our way back, I’ll give you the oar across the head. You cowardly, treacherous bit of scum!”

“No, he isn’t,” said Macey, boldly, “and you’re all out of it, clever as you are. It was not Vane’s doing, the running on the pile, but mine. I did it to take some of the conceit and bullying out of you, so you may say and do what you like.”

“Oh, yes, I knew you did it,” sneered Distin; “but there are not brains enough in your head to originate such a dastardly trick. That was Vane Lee’s doing, and he’ll hear of it another time, as sure as my name’s Distin.”

“I tell you it was my own doing entirely,” cried Macey, flushing up; “and I’ll tell you something else. I’m glad I did it—so there. For you deserved it, and you deserve another for being such a cad.”

“What do you mean?” cried Distin, threateningly. “What I say, you ungrateful, un-English humbug. You were drowning; you couldn’t be found, and you wouldn’t have been here now, if it hadn’t been for old Weathercock diving down and fetching you up, and then, half-dead himself, working so hard to help save your life.”

“I don’t believe it,” snarled Distin.

“Don’t,” said Macey, as he thrust the boat from the side, throwing himself forward at the same time, so that he rode out on his chest, and then wriggled in, to seat himself close by Vane, while Gilmore and Distin began to row hard, so as to get some warmth into their chilled bodies.

They went on in silence for some time, and then Macey leaped up.

“Now, Vane,” he cried; “it’s our turn.”

“Sit down,” roared Distin.

“Don’t, Aleck,” said Vane, firmly. “You are quite right. We want to warm ourselves too. Come, Gil, and take my place.”

“Sit down!” roared Distin again; but Gilmore exchanged places with Vane, and Macey stepped forward, and took hold of Distin’s oar.

“Now then, give it up,” he said; and, utterly cowed by the firmness of the two lads, Distin stepped over the thwart by Vane, and went and seated himself by Gilmore.

“Ready?” cried Macey.

“Yes.”

“You pull as hard as you can, and let’s send these shivers out of us. You call out, Gil, and steer us, for we don’t want to have to look round.”

They bent their backs to their work, and sent the boat flying through the water, Gilmore shouting a hint from time to time, with the result that they came in sight of the mill much sooner than they had expected, and Gilmore looked out anxiously, hoping to get the boat moored unseen, so that they could hurry off and get to the rectory by the fields, so that their drenched condition should not be noticed.

But, just as they approached the big willows, a window in the mill was thrown open, the loud clacking and the roar of the machinery reached their ears, and there was the great, full face of the miller grinning down at them.

“Why, hallo!” he shouted; “what game’s this? Been fishing?”

“No,” said Vane, quietly; “we—”

But, before he could finish, the miller roared:—

“Oh, I see, you’ve been bathing; and, as you had no towels, you kept your clothes on. I say, hang it all, my lads, didst ta capsize the boat?”

“No,” said Vane, quietly, as he leaped ashore with the chain; “we had a misfortune, and ran on one of those big stumps up the river.”

“Hey? What, up yonder by old brigg?”

“Yes.”

“Hang it all, lads, come into the cottage, and I’ll send on to fetch your dry clothes. Hey, but it’s a bad job. Mustn’t let you catch cold. Here, hi! Mrs Lasby. Kettle hot?”

“Yes, Mester,” came from the cottage.

“Then set to, and make the young gents a whole jorum of good hot tea.”

The miller hurried the little party into the cottage, where the kitchen-fire was heaped up with brushwood and logs, about which the boys stood, and steamed, drinking plenteously of hot tea the while, till the messenger returned with their dry clothes, and, after the change had been made, their host counselled a sharp run home, to keep up the circulation, undertaking to send the wet things back himself.

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