Under Boy Scout Colors

by Joseph Bushnell Ames

But Fate willed otherwise. As a matter of fact, Frank did not make that final effort which was to bring him success. He skated over to a clear spot on the ice and was swinging along to get up speed when a sudden panicky cry from up the lake made him stop and whirl around with a grind of steel runners that threw up a shower of icy particles.

Trexler was nowhere to be seen! For a fraction of a second Frank stared open-mouthed at the bare expanse of ice narrowing to the outlet, spanned by the old stone bridge. Then his sweeping glance paused at a dark, irregular patch in the glistening surface where something seemed to move feebly, and with a smothered cry he dug his skates into the ice and sped up the lake.

The stick slid over the jagged edges of the hole

The distance was not really great, but to the frightened boy it seemed interminable. Almost at once he recognized the spot as open water in the midst of which Trexler’s white face and clawing hands striving frantically for a hold on the treacherous, splintering edges stood out with horrible distinctness–Trexler, who could not swim a stroke!

Frank shuddered and dug his teeth into his under lip. For the matter of that, he himself was almost as helpless. With a sick, sinking pang it was borne in on him that the few halting strokes he had learned to take in smooth water last summer would be next to useless in an emergency like this. But he did not pause nor lessen his speed. He only knew that he could not hesitate, with that anguished face and those clutching hands to spur him on.

“Hold on a minute longer, Paul!” he cried, when he was within twenty feet of the hole. “Don’t let go. I–I’ll–get you out!”

Jerking at the lever of his skates, he kicked them off. The hockey-stick was still in his grasp, and, with this outstretched, he flung himself flat on the ice and wriggled forward. He paid no heed to the ominous cracking beneath him; there was no time for caution. Trexler had lost the slight grip he had had on the crumbling edges of the hole and was beating the water madly with his hands. His eyes, wild with despairing horror, were fixed on Frank with a desperate pleading that made the boy oblivious to everything save the vital need of haste.

With a sharp thrust of both feet, he pushed himself forward. The stick slid over the jagged edges of the hole and straight into the groping hands that closed over and hung upon it with the tenacious grip that knows no reason.