“Untie me, quick!” he shouted to Phil, who stood gazing stupidly at the whirling bubbles where his leader had disappeared. “No, cut the rope—take my knife out of my pocket!”
Phil, who was always ready to follow the party in power, obeyed mechanically. In a few seconds Winthrop was free.
“Can’t he swim?” he cried, kicking off the last coils of the rope, as Mort rose, screaming and splashing to the surface, and went under again.
“Not a stroke,” said Phil stoically. “Serves him right, don’t it? Say, Win, I’m awful sorry”—
But he was apologizing only to the pine-tree and the cut cords. Winthrop had sprung into the pool, and even now had his late assailant by the collar and was striking out for the shore lower down, where the bank was not so high.
“Don’t drown me!” yelled Mort, rolling up his eyes. “I didn’t mean”—
“Stop kicking—you’re all right!” gasped Winthrop. “There—put your feet down—can’t you touch bottom?”
“Winthrop, my lad! Here—give me your hand!” cried a new voice; and Puss’s father leaned perilously far over the bank to assist the boy. At the same time Phil and Dick—the latter of whom had brought Mr. Rowan to the scene—helped the choking, crest-fallen, dripping Mort to his feet.
“What does this mean?” demanded the older man sternly, surveying the cords and whip.