Frank was hurled down again, but this time he had struck the trunk of a tree, and he was stunned. It was some moments before he could recover, but still he did not give up the hope of rendering the captive some assistance.
When he got upon his feet he realized that the chances of overtaking Horn and his captive in the darkness was slim.
“Must do something,” he muttered. “What?”
Then he thought of the boat.
“Cut ’em off! Perhaps I can do that. I’ll try!”
He ran for the pier, hoping to get there ahead of Capt. Horn—hoping Capt. Horn and the captive would be the next to arrive after he reached the spot.
Frank’s clothing was heavy with water, and thus he was hampered. He could not see what lay before him, and he took chances of a broken neck. Two or three times he went down, but he came up again like a bounding rubber ball.
“This—isn’t—anything—to—bucking—Harvard’s—line—in—football—game,” he panted.
He enjoyed it. The thought came to him that he would have a jolly time telling the fellows of the adventure. For one moment he saw in his fancy a crowd of friends gathered in his room eagerly listening to the narration of that night’s adventures.
He did not wait for his friends to overtake him. He had lost them in the darkness, and he knew it would not do to wait.