She explained how she had got into the boat and she had drifted away. No, she had not been frightened—only when she saw the word "Danger" she had begun to be afraid.
Her rescuers voted that she was a heroine.
The young men moved away a few steps and held a consultation; one, who had an eyeglass stuck in his eye and a pipe in his mouth, came forward.
"Get into the boat, Meg, and we will all row you back. You will point out the place you came from when we approach it."
He handed Meg in, and the young fellows vied with each other to pay her attention. One put a cushion at her back, another a plank to her feet. "Meg," they vowed, "must be rowed back in triumph."
They stepped into the boat, four took oars. Another sat behind Meg, ropes in hand. Presently they lit their pipes. Meg sat back in state. How kind they were! They were not cross, as girls mostly were; they did not mock or tease her; they did not say a word of what some of the girls called chaff. She watched with amazement all their pipes going puff, puff, puff. She liked them because they did not talk much. They reminded her of Mr. Standish. When their eyes caught hers they gave her a smile. How strong they were! She watched their muscular arms and hands sweeping the water with their oars, the rhythmic movement of their swaying bodies.
No Greek maiden delivered from peril by a group of demi-gods ever felt more lost in dreamy wonder and gratitude than did Meg, rowed up the river by her rescuers. Her eyes rested oftenest on the one who had saved her—he seemed to her the most magnificent member of this gallant crew. He had laughing, twinkling eyes, thick, short, curly hair, silky mustache no bigger than an eyebrow. It occurred to her that she had not thanked him for saving her life. She turned over in her mind what was the proper thing to say. She tried to recollect what persons in story-books said to the saviours of their lives, but she could not remember; she pondered, but the words of gratitude would not come. At last she exclaimed abruptly:
"You saved my life—and—and—I am very much obliged to you."
A peal of laughter taken up by all the group greeted this speech. The laughter was so jovial and good-natured that Meg felt at her ease. It seemed to say: "What nonsense! Don't thank me. It was nothing."
Then they began to question her again: "Was she afraid of meeting her schoolmistress? Would she be scolded?"