“Well, Ruthie Fielding!” cried Helen, “you’re not going to jump overboard in your party dress, and try to get that poor cat, I should hope!”
“There’s a boy who can get her!” exclaimed Nettie, standing up in the carriage, and being able to see well enough to espy a figure on a small raft down by the loading dock.
“Oh, Nettie! ask him to try!” gasped Ruth.
“Hey, boy!” called Nettie. “Can’t you save that poor cat for us?”
The boy turned, and both Ruth and Helen recognized the curly head—if not the shockingly ragged garments—of Henry Smith. He waved a reassuring hand and pushed off from the platform.
Mr. Jimson came running from the interior of the warehouse and shouted after him.
“There! I hope we haven’t got him into more trouble,” mourned Ruth.
“And he can’t get the cat,” wailed Helen, in a moment. “The current is taking the raft clear out into midstream.”
Curly was working vigorously with the single sweep, however, and he finally brought the cumbersome craft to the edge of the eddy where the hencoop with its frightened passenger whirled under the high bank.
“Yo’ kyant git that cat, you fool boy!” bawled Jimson. “And yo’ll lose my raft.”