At such a time as that, bygones were bygones. Merriwell forgot all his old differences with Lenning—forgot also that Lenning might have been the one who had rolled the bowlder off the cliff—and plunged to the fellow’s relief just as he would have hastened to the aid of any one else in distress.
“That’s Chip Merriwell for you,” muttered Bleeker, kneeling and peering into the watery depths from the side of the canoe.
“Excitement is crowding us pretty hard this afternoon,” said Hotchkiss. “I’m fair dazed with it all. Why in Sam Hill did Shoup pound Lenning on the head with that paddle? I thought they were pards.”
“They were; but Shoup’s a dope fiend, and a fellow like that isn’t responsible for what he does. I suppose he was mad because Lenning’s paddle broke in his hands. Lenning couldn’t help that, and Shoup——”
Merry and Clancy had been under water for what seemed an inordinately long period. At that instant, however, they came to the surface—and between them was the white, dripping face of Jode Lenning.
“Bully for you, Merriwell!” shouted Bleeker enthusiastically. “Can we help with the canoe?”
“We’ll get him ashore,” sputtered Merry, shaking his head to get the water out of his eyes. “He’s unconscious and won’t make any trouble. How are you making it, Clan?” he asked of his chum.
“Well enough,” answered Clancy, blowing like a porpoise. “Let’s get solid ground under us as soon as we can, though. This is no easy job.”
Steadily, but surely, the two chums made their way shoreward. Fortunately, the bank was but a little distance away, and it was not long before they had dragged the limp form of Lenning high and dry on the sand.
While Merriwell and Clancy sprawled out in the sun to get their breath, Bleeker and Hotchkiss, and a few more of the campers, worked over Lenning. The lad was not in very bad shape, and the efforts at resuscitation speedily met with success.