Even then the tough pine held its own for a step or two.
“You young rascals.”
Crack!
A wild spreading out of fat arms, a wheezy shriek of fear, a tremendous splash in the calm, deep water, and Gershom Todderley had received the full benefit of Pat Murphy’s trap.
“The boat, boys!” shouted Zeb.
“Quick, now, or the old porpoise will drown himself. Pity we didn’t bring a harpoon along.”
Four naked boys were in the boat in less than no time, and while the Rev. Solomon Dryer stood on the flume, helplessly opening and shutting his mouth, without uttering a sound, Zeb and his heroes pulled vigorously to the rescue. They would have been there in plenty of time, too, but Pat Murphy, forgetting, in his conscience-stricken excitement, that he could not swim a stroke, had made no pause at the brink, but had gone in, heels over head, to fish for his employer.
There was double work cut out for Zeb and his friends, and the willows on the opposite shore were alive with a chorus which never came from the throats of blackbirds.
The miller may have been a selfish man, but he was neither a coward nor a fool, and when, on coming to the surface for the second time, he found an oar-blade poked into his well-covered ribs, he had quite sense enough to cling to it and be pulled to the side of the boat.
“That’ll do,” said Zeb. “You’ll tip us over if you try to climb in. You’re safe enough, now, and we’ll pull you ashore. I’m going for poor Pat Murphy.”