“It doesn’t matter.  Go on,” said Scott, who looked at Thirlwell meaningly.

“For a while, I couldn’t see what I’d better do, and then I looked at the water.  It was glimmering a few yards out, but there was a dark piece where the stream runs slack beside the rocks, and I took off my jacket and my boots.”

“Why didn’t you take off all your clothes?” Scott asked.

Drummond looked at him with surprise.  “I knew my skin would shine in the water.”

“Yes, of course,” said Scott.  “Well, it was a risky swim.  If you had been washed into the main stream you’d have gone much farther than you meant.  Did you get near Driscoll?”

“Sure I did.  An eddy swung me out and I reckoned I was going down the main rush, but I caught the back-swirl and after that kept very close along the bank.  Got a knock from a boulder, but, just paddling enough to keep on top, I drifted down to where Steve stood.  He was on a ledge now, and I could hardly see him against the pines, but his head was bent, as if he was looking into the water.  Then I allowed I’d been a fool.  I couldn’t stop unless I crawled out almost at his feet; you can’t swim against that stream.  Steve doesn’t like me and there were some hefty rocks around.”

Drummond paused, and Thirlwell imagined the lad had run some risk.  A blow from a heavy stone would have stopped his swimming, without leaving a tell-tale mark, since his body would bear many bruises when the rapid threw it out among the eddies in the tail-pool.  Thirlwell could picture the scene—­the dark pines standing against the pale sky, and the dim reflection from the river; the unsuspecting man bending over the ledge; and the lad drifting noiselessly down stream, with only his head above water and his rather long hair streaking his dark face.

“Well,” continued Drummond, “you see how I was fixed!  I couldn’t pull out from the bank because the slack was narrow, and, if I kept on, I must pass Steve very close.  I surely didn’t like it, but saw what I’d better do.  He was facing down stream, turned half away from me, and I reckoned the water was about four feet deep.  I’d grab his foot and pull him in.  Then I’d get away while he was floundering about, while if he was too quick and gripped me, we’d be equal in the water and he’d have no rocks to throw.

“I drifted on until I could reach him and seized his foot, but the rest didn’t work out as I thought.  Steve didn’t slip into the water; he kept on his feet and screamed.”

“I suppose you mean he shouted,” Thirlwell suggested.

“No, sir—­I mean screamed; like a jack-rabbit in a trap.  The ledge slanted awkwardly; he couldn’t turn to see what had got hold of him, and had hard work to keep his balance when an eddy swung me off the bank.  I saw him stiffen as he braced himself, and guess he felt my grip get tighter through his boot, because he gave another scream, as if he was mad afraid.  Then