he got his other foot against something that steadied him and I saw I couldn’t pull him off.  I let go and swam under water as long as I could.  When I came up Steve wasn’t there, but I heard him push through the willows up the bank.  He was running as if he thought he had to go for his life.  Well, I got out at the next slack and went for my boots and jacket.  Steve wasn’t watching; I guess he’d had enough!”

“It’s possible,” Scott agreed dryly.  “Do you think he saw you just before you dived?”

“He might have seen my hand; it would look whiter than my gray shirt.  He certainly didn’t see my face; I didn’t mean him to.”

“Well,” said Scott, “it’s an amusing tale, but you had better not tell it to anybody else.  Now you can go along, but see you keep out of trouble in future.  If I find you talking about Driscoll, or quarreling with the boys, I’ll butt in.”

Drummond went away, and when he vanished into the shadow of the pines Thirlwell remarked:  “I don’t imagine Driscoll found the thing amusing!”

“Do you think he afterwards guessed it was Drummond who got hold of him?  The young idiot gave him a hint when he taunted him with being scared.”

“It’s likely,” said Thirlwell.  “If he did guess, it would account for his anger; the man was carried away by a rage.  He looked as if he’d have killed the lad if there had been nobody about, and perhaps he had some excuse.  He’s afraid of the river, and we have seen his imagination get the better of his pluck.  I’m not surprised he got a nasty jar.  Try to picture it!  The growing dark; the roar of the rapid that we know he hates; and the wet hand that rose from the eddy and seized his foot.”

Scott nodded.  “Just so! Whose hand do you imagine he thought it was?”

“I think we both suspect.  But we agreed that suspicion was not enough.”

“It is not enough,” said Scott, who took his fishing rod from the pegs in the wall of the shack.  “Well, shall we go down to the river?  The trout ought to rise to-night.”

CHAPTER XIX

A LOST OPPORTUNITY

The class-room was very hot and a ray of dazzling sunshine quivered upon the diagrams on the yellow wall.  An electric fan hummed monotonously and buzzing flies hovered about Agatha’s head.  Her face and hands were damp as she stood with knitted brows beside a tall blackboard, looking at the drowsy girls whom she was teaching inorganic chemistry.  One or two fixed their eyes on the symbols she had written; the rest had obviously given up the effort to understand the complicated formula.  In fact, they did not seem to notice that she had stopped her lecture.