The boy had ceased to struggle. While this may have seemed a serious thing, at least it aided Hugh in his effort to save the other. He did not have to contend with a frantic creature, ready to clutch him about the neck and drag him down in an effort to climb out of the depths.
Scouts fortunately are early in their career instructed in such important things as saving a comrade who may be in peril of drowning. One of the chief benefits of the annual camping-out experience is that it enables every member of the troop not only to learn how to swim and dive and take care of himself in the water, but also to know how to rescue a comrade who has been seized with a cramp, and even resuscitate him after he has been brought safely to the shore.
Had Whistling Smith tried to clutch Hugh, the scout master would have kept him at arm’s length, even though rough measures were required in order to bring this about. Sometimes it even becomes necessary to stun the drowning one so that he can be handled safely, for once he throws his arms around the neck of the would-be rescuer, the chances are that both will perish.
When Hugh came to the surface with his helpless burden, he found Bud swimming aimlessly around, calling his name piteously. The scout seemed to be dreadfully broken up by the sudden terrible catastrophe that had stared them all in the face. Not finding Hugh there when he arrived at the spot, he had jumped to the conclusion that the other must have been seized by the drowning boy and dragged under.
“Oh, Hugh! I thought you were gone!” he managed to gasp, as he suddenly discovered his chum right alongside. “Did he pull you down with him?”
“No, but I had to go down after him,” said the other tersely. “Give me a hand here, Bud, so as to keep his head above water. He’s pretty near gone, I tell you.”
“You better believe I will,” cried the other, his teeth chattering as he spoke. It was not the chill of the water that caused this, but a dreadful fear lest Whistling Smith might never recover, and that blame would be attached to him for having thrown the other into the river for a ducking.
Bud was as eager as any one could be to do all in his power. Indeed, he shouldered more than his share in towing the helpless boy to the shore; and the two scouts were soon wading in the now shallow water toward the spot where their comrades eagerly awaited their coming, ready to lend what aid they could.
In solemn fashion then was Whistling Smith lifted to the bank and laid on the green grass. The cold moon looked down, and showed them that his face was ghastly white.
“Oh, Hugh, you don’t think he’s dead, do you?” asked Arthur Cameron in an awed tone; while poor repentant Bud could not muster up enough courage to utter a single sound. He simply stood there, with his knees secretly knocking together, and prayed ever so fervently deep down in his heart that nothing so terrible should come of this attempt to cure the vandal of his evil ways.