The man seemed to hesitate. Then he slowed down his small craft. “You’ll have to jump, Bill,” was what he said, using his hands as a megaphone.
“But—I say!”
“Jump, you fool—and be quick about it.” There was authority as well as power in the strident tones.
Bill kicked off the leather moccasins he wore, and stepped back a few paces.
“You’re not Harold Johnson!” exclaimed the girl.
“Never said I was,” returned Bill. “Sorry to leave so hastily. But there’s a reason. Thanks for everything—bye-bye!”
“What a perfect idiot I’ve been!” she cried. “You’re Bill Bolton, of course.”
“Of course!” grinned Bill and sprang toward the edge.
“Don’t go!” she shrieked. “It’s Sanders—he’ll kill you—don’t—” She screamed.
Bill’s body shot through the air, and he cut the water below in a very pretty dive.