Pee-wee wanted to name this chapter “Saved By A Spark Plug” or “The Hero Plug,” but I said it sounded silly.  Any way I’ll never say another word against the tide.  Often when I saw motor boats stuck on the flats I could hear the men in them saying things about the tide—­oh, gee, you ought to have heard some of the things they said.

But I’ll never say anything, anyway.  It seemed kind of, you know, like an army coming to rescue me, slow but sure, and pretty soon I was swimming around, and oh, didn’t I feel good!

All of a sudden like, there was a little river there and it kept getting deeper and wider and I knew it began away out in the ocean and it seemed as if it was picking its way all the way up into these marshes, to give me a chance to do what every scout knows how to do—­swim.

Of course I was saved, but I didn’t know how far I’d have to swim, only I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have to die now.

I guess now you’d better look at the map I made, and then you’ll see how the creek came in the marshes and about where I was, when it began, to rise.

Of course I didn’t know where it came from or where it went, but I decided to swim against the tide for two reasons.  First I was afraid to go the other way because it might just peter out, like most of those meadow creeks do, and then I’d be in the marsh again.  Oh, boy, safety first.  I’d had enough of marshes.  Besides if I swam the other way it would be deeper and wider and I’d be more likely to find a board or a log or something and pretty soon I might come to solid shores.

But before I started I had another adventure.  I took off my shoes and stockings and everything except my underclothes.  But of course, that wasn’t the adventure.  It was a dandy adventure, but you have to wait, and if it rains to-morrow so we can’t go trailing, I’ll write some more.  I think it’ll rain to-morrow.

CHAPTER VII

WEETONKA, THE TERRIBLE CHIEF

Of course you can tell when you look at the map where the creek came from.  It came from Dutch Creek and Dutch Creek flows into the Bridgeboro River, and Bridgeboro River rises in the northern part of some place or other and takes a—­some kind of a course—­and flows into New York Bay.  Once I got kept in, in school, for not knowing that.  But how should I know where this creek went?  It came-that was enough for me.  I should worry where it went.

Before I started to swim I decided I’d go under and try to find out what it was that I’d been standing on.  Because I had to thank it.  A boy scout is supposed to be grateful.  So I ducked and groped around in the marshy bottom and I felt something hard with a point to it.  I had to come up for air, then I ducked again and felt around over it and under it.  I joggled it with both my hands and it budged-not much but a little.  Then I came up for air and went down and gave a good tug at it.