"Say, where'd you come from?"
"From the lake—out of the lake. I was drowned out there last night, or pretty nearly drowned. A steamer went down and I was carried under——"
"A steamer?"
"Yes."
"Which one?"
"The 'Macomber,' I think it was. Coal laden and——"
"I must tell Pa," and the fisher boy was off on the run.
Steve gazed after the lad reflectively.
"I'd give a ten-dollar bill to anybody who would tell me how to run like that now. Poor Bob, I'll bet he's eating his big heart out for sorrow over my disappearance." Steve paused. "They think I'm drowned, of course, they do, and I ought to be. It must have been intended that I should be, but somehow I didn't arrive on schedule time."
Chuckling to himself, the lad started on toward the city, ten miles away. He tried to make himself forget his weariness by whistling and singing. Coming to some willow bushes, he cut the stiffest small branch he could find, from which he trimmed the nubs, then started on, whipping his legs with it.