Part 56 (1/2)

But they were gloating too soon. We came to the rock and the tree.

”Here,” cried the new-found friend, ”I'll get hold of the tree and then hold you.”

Instantly he threw himself on his stomach, hooking his leg about the tree trunk. I crawled out over the ledge of slippery rock to the very edge and looked over. It was the only chance.

The old naturalist seized my legs in his hands. I slid down the rock, letting myself go.

Literally, his presence of mind had invented what was really a life chain, a human rope.

On came the canoe, Elaine in it as white as death, crying out and trying to stop or guide it as, nearer and nearer through the smooth-worn walls of the chasm, it whirled to the falls.

With a grip of steel, the naturalist held to the tree which swayed and bent, while also he held me, as if in a vise, head down.

On came Elaine--directly at us.

She stood up and balanced herself, a dangerous feat in a canoe at any time, but doubly so in those dark, swirling, treacherous waters.

”Steady!” I encouraged. ”Grab my arms!”

As the canoe reached us, she gave a little jump and seized my forearms.

Her hands slipped, but I grasped her own arms, and we held each other.

The momentum of her body was great. For an instant I thought we were all going over. But the naturalist held his grip and slowly began to pull himself and us up the slippery rock.

A second later the canoe crashed over the falls in a cloud of spray and pounding water.

As we reached the bank above the rock, I almost lifted Elaine and set her down, trembling and gasping for breath. Before either of us knew it the queer old fellow had plunged into the bushes and was gone without another word.

”Walter,” she cried, ”call him back, I must tell him how much I owe him--my life!”

But he had disappeared, absolutely. We shouted after him. It was of no use.

”Well, what do you think of that?” cried Elaine. ”He saved my life--then didn't wait even to be thanked.”

Who was he?

We looked at each other a moment. But neither of us spoke what was in our hearts.

CHAPTER XV

THE FLASH

Alone in the doorway before his rude shack on the sh.o.r.e of the promontory sat an old fisherman, gazing out fixedly at the harbor as though deeply concerned over the weather, which, as usual, was unseasonable.

Suddenly he started and would have disappeared into his hut but for the fact that, although he could not himself be seen, he had already seen the intruder.

It was a trooper from Fort Dale. He galloped up and, as though obeying to the letter his instructions, deliberately dropped an envelope at the feet of the fisherman. Then, without a word, he galloped away again.