just where it wanted him and, with a swing of its powerful tail, lifted the boy in the air and neatly tossed him overboard.  It was fortunate for Ned that he was holding the alligator so tightly that it was more of a push than a blow that he received.  As it was, the breath was so completely knocked out of him that for an instant he could not swim and was drifting with the current, feebly paddling with his hands, just enough to keep afloat, when he felt Dick’s supporting hand and heard a voice in his ear: 

“Don’t say you’re hurt, Neddy.”

“No—­no—­not a—­bit.  Nothing but—­the talk—­knocked out of me.  Gee!  Wouldn’t he make a fine spanking machine?”

Both of the boys were glad when the captain came for them with the skiff and they were saved a hard swim against the current.

“Where is our alligator?” said Ned to the captain.  “Hope you didn’t turn him loose.”

“Nope.  He’s all right.  He slipped back into the water when you went in swimming, and of course I knew you wanted him looked after first, so I gave his line a turn round the big cleat.  When I left he was trying to pull it out.”

When the boys were back on the Irene, Molly clung to her brother’s hand, hardly able to speak, while Mr. Barstow said to his son: 

“Is that the sort of thing you boys have been doing in your odd hours when you were not squabbling with panthers or mixing up with tarpon?  I am afraid you need a traveling guardian to look after you.”

A hundred feet was added to the rope that held the alligator and he was left to pasture in the water until the Irene was ready to sail, when he was hauled aboard the skiff and lashed there.  While he was being tied he was perfectly tame and peaceful, but, though he looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, no one trusted him and even the captain fought shy of his tail.

For two miles from the Glades the river was broad and the navigation, excepting for many bunches of moss and manatee grass, was easy.  Then came half a mile of a twisting narrow creek, in places not twice the width of the Irene, through which poured swiftly the whole volume of the big river.  At the head of this creek the captain came to anchor.

“We won’t get through this creek without a lot of trouble.  The current will throw us against the bank a dozen times and we haven’t speed to prevent it and couldn’t turn the corners if we had.  The launch must go ahead and keep the bow of the big boat out of the bushes if it can.  Then we can’t be bothered with the skiff or the ’gator.  We’d likely lose both.  Somebody must take the launch and tow the skiff through and then come back, if he can get back, and help the big boat through.  I hate to do it, but we can’t tow the skiff and, of course, it would be torn off of the davits in two minutes.  We are going to scrape the sides and perhaps tear out half the rigging of the Irene, anyhow.  Now who volunteers to tow the skiff through the creek?  I can’t go because the launch may not be able to buck the current and get back and I must stand by the big boat.”