"No, but you'll float," bawled Little Tim, who was darting into the shed for a rope.
Indeed, as the colonel soon discovered, now that he was once more at the surface, it seemed really impossible for him to sink. He turned on his back and floated like a whale.
And at this moment, most opportunely, there appeared up the road the line of bicyclists returning.
They were down at the shore shortly—Tom Harris, Bob White, George, Arthur and Joe Warren—just as Little Tim emerged from the shed, with an armful of rope.
"Here, you catch hold," he said, "while I make fast to the colonel." The next moment, he was overboard, swimming alongside Colonel Witham.
"Look out he don't grab you and drown you both," called George Warren.
Little Tim was too much of a fish in the water to be caught that way. The most available part of Colonel Witham to make fast to, as he floated at length, was his nearest foot. Tim Reardon threw a loop about that foot, then the other; and the boys ashore hauled lustily.
The colonel, more than ever resembling a whale—but a live one, inasmuch as he continued to bellow helplessly—came slowly in, and stranded on the shore. They drew him well in with a final tug.
"Here, quit that," he gurgled. "Want to drag me down the road?" The colonel struggled to his feet, his face purple with anger.
"Now get out of here, all of you!" he roared. "There's always trouble when you're around. Tim Reardon, you keep away from here, do you understand?"