His arms grew numb and his legs seemed to have no feeling left. If he could only loosen the weight which dragged him down! It was as though hands were clutching him and pulling him slowly but inexorably below the surface.
Finally into his numbed brain came the thought that they were really hands—the hands of the child! Ah, well, it was only justice that the weak fingers of the little one he had murdered should have grown strong enough to draw him to his destruction.
He was tired. If he could only give up and cease to try. But he did not want to face the child down in the deep, cold river. The water washed over his face and he struggled weakly to raise his head, but could not. In his ears there was a distant roaring which grew louder and louder. The dragging hands were very heavy. Why not stop battling and let it go? Life was not worth the effort. His arms dropped feebly and a sense of infinite rest and peace stole over him.
The roaring ceased.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE YOUNG MAN IN TROUBLE.
When Dick and his friends left the Clover County Club, to continue their trip, Forest Hills was their next scheduled stopping place.
“Try the Burlington,” said Roger Clingwood, as he bade the party good-by; “the restaurant is the best in the place.”
Following Clingwood’s advice Dick and his friends had gone at once to the Burlington, and after removing the stains of travel, sought the dining room.
As the head waiter spied them, he conducted them to a round table near one of the open windows and drew out the chairs with a flourish.