The Ramblers were about to rush between them to prevent further hostilities, when Nat himself saved them that trouble.
In his eagerness to escape, he had not taken sufficient heed of his surroundings. His spring away from Zeke landed him on the very brink of the river, where the bank was steep and slippery. His feet flew from under him, and as he began sliding down the declivity, he grasped frantically at the top of the bank. His fingers touched it, but he succeeded only in tearing out a handful of grass. "Grab me, somebody; I'm falling in!" he shouted wildly.
But it had happened so quickly that the Ramblers were powerless to render any assistance. The unfortunate Nat shot downward at an estimated speed of not less than ten feet per second and struck the water with a tremendous splash. The spray dashed in all directions, and over the placid surface wide circles moved one after another in undulating lines.
"My goodness, he has disappeared completely," exclaimed Bob.
Consternation reigned, but only for a moment. A hand was thrust above the surface, then a head, and Nat, puffing and blowing, rose to a standing posture, with the water up to his waist.
"Where's that old scarecrow?" he cried, as soon as he could get his breath. "I'll make him pay for this."
It was strange how a few moments had altered his appearance. With the water pouring off him in streams, his hair matted fantastically to his forehead and his face streaked with mud, he presented such a ludicrous spectacle that the Ramblers could hardly keep from bursting into roars of laughter.
Nat waded a few feet and seized his hat, which was just about to sink. "Don't let him get away," he cried. "If nobody ever saw an awful row before, they'd better wait until I get on that bank."
Disdainfully refusing any assistance, the speaker made his way to a place where he could climb up, and a few moments later, was standing on the greensward. His fists were tightly clenched and he presented a picture of the most uncontrollable rage. Apparently having formed an intimate acquaintance with the mud at the bottom of the river, his wet, clinging garments were decorated with generous patches of assorted shapes.
Nat's first act was to pick up a handful of loose earth, which he hurled spitefully at the "Major." "You—you," he began, his words almost choked by passion, "you old villain; you'll be in jail for this before night. My uncle will—"