He was all she had—­a yellow bit she had taken with her from the promised land, a morsel of the life that both she and Floyd loved.  With a shove that sent Lem backward, she freed herself and peered over the side.  Snatchet had come to the surface, and in his vain effort to reach the scow his small paws were making large watery rings, which contorted the reflection of the moon strangely.  He seemed so little, so powerless in the vast expanse, that Fledra, forgetful of her skirts and the handicap they would put upon her, leaped from the scow.  Lem saw the water close over her head, and for many seconds only little bubbles and ripples disturbed that part of the lake where her body had sunk.  An instant he stood hesitant, then he rushed to the bow.

“Lon, Lon!” he roared.  “Flea’s jumped overboard!”

The churning of the tug suddenly stopped, and the canalman saw Lon’s big body pass through the moonlight into the water.

The scow was soon close to the tug, and together Lem and Middy Burnes examined the lake’s surface for a sight of the man and the girl.  Many minutes passed.  Then a shout from the rear sent Lem running to the stern of the scow which was now at a standstill.  He looked down, and on Lon’s arm he saw Fledra, pressing Snatchet against her breast.  With his other hand the squatter was clinging to the rudder.

“Here she is!” Cronk called.  “Grab her up, Lem!”

The scowman relieved Lon of his burden and carried the half-drowned girl below, whither the squatter, dripping with water, quickly followed.  Snatchet was directly in his path, and he kicked the dog under the table.  At the yelp, Fledra lifted her head, and Lon bent over her.

“What’d ye jump in the lake for, Flea?” he asked.

Still somewhat dazed, Fledra failed to answer.

“Were ye meanin’ to drown yer self?”

The girl shook her head, and glanced fearfully at Lem.  “Were ye a worryin’ her, Lem Crabbe?” demanded the squatter hoarsely.

“I were a tryin’ to kiss her,” growled Lem.  “A man can kiss his own woman, can’t he?  And that dog bit me.  Look at them fingers!” Through the dim candlelight Lem’s sullenness answered the dark look that Lon threw on him.

“I don’t give a damn for yer fingers,” Lon snarled, “and she ain’t yer woman yet, and she wouldn’t be nuther, if ye weren’t the cussedest man livin’.  Now listen while I tell ye this:  If ye don’t let that gal be, ye’ll never get her, and I’ll smack yer head off ye, if I has to say that again!  Do ye want me to say that ye can’t never have her?”

“Nope,” cowered Lem.

“Then mind yer own business and get out of this here cabin!  I’ll see to Flea.”