Something lay across the seats covered with a large cloak.  The boys did not look behind, but they all knew what they were dragging.  The homely funeral-car rolled slowly along under the stars.  The crickets chirped; the multitudinous voice of the summer night murmured on every side, mingling with the hollow rumble of the truck.  In a few moments the procession turned into the grounds, and the boat was drawn to the platform.

“The little boys may go,” said Mr. Gray.

They dropped the rope and turned away.  They did not even try to see what was done with the body; but when Blanding came out of the house afterward, they asked him who found the drowned man.

“Jim Greenidge,” said he.  “He stripped as soon as we were well out on the pond, and asked the stranger gentleman to show him about where his friend sank.  The moment the place was pointed out he dove.  The first time he found nothing.  The second time he touched him”—­the boys shuddered—­“and he actually brought him up to the surface.  But he was quite dead.  Then we took him into the boat and covered him over.  That’s all.”

There were no more games, there was no other talk, that evening.  When the boys were going to bed, Gabriel asked Little Malacca in which room Jim Greenidge slept.

“He sleeps in Number Seven.  Why?”

“Oh!  I only wanted to know.”

Gabriel Bennet could not sleep.  His mind was too busy with the events of the day.  All night long he could think of nothing but the strong figure of Jim Greenidge erect in the summer night, then plunging silently into the black water.  When it was fairly light he hurried on his clothes, and passing quietly along the hall, knocked at the door of Number Seven.

“Who’s there?” cried a voice within.

“It’s only me.”

“Who’s me?”

“Gabriel Bennet.”

“Come in, then.”

It was Abel Newt who spoke; and as Gabriel stepped in, Newt asked, abruptly,

“What do you want?”

“I want to speak to Jim Greenidge.”

“Well, there he is,” replied Newt, pointing to another bed.  “Jim!  Jim!”

Greenidge roused himself.

“What’s the matter?” said his cheery voice, as he rose upon his elbow and looked at Gabriel with his kind eyes.  “Come here, Gabriel.  What is it?”

Gabriel hesitated, for Abel Newt was looking sharply at him.  But in a moment he went to Greenidge’s bedside, and said, shyly, in a low voice,

“Shall I black your boots for you?”

“Black my boots!  Why, Gabriel, what on earth do you mean?  No, of course you shall not.”

And the strong youth looked pleasantly on the boy who stood by his bedside, and then put out his hand to him.

“Can’t I brush your clothes then, or do any thing for you?” persisted Gabriel, softly.

“Certainly not.  Why do you want to?” replied Greenidge.

“Oh!  I only thought it would be pleasant if I could do something—­that’s all,” said Gabriel, as he moved slowly away.  “I’m sorry to have waked you.”