“Good Lord—­what’s that!” he gasped, but he already knew it was a face, livid and blood-streaked.  Dropping on his knees he reached out a pair of long arms and made a dexterous grab, and his fingers closed on the collar of Yancy’s shirt.  “Neighbor, I certainly have got you!” said Cavendish, between his teeth.  He drew Yancy close alongside the raft, and, slipping a hand under each arm, pulled him clear of the water.  The swift current swept the raft on down the stream.  It rode fairly in the center of the lane of light, but no eye had observed its passing.  Mr. Cavendish stood erect and stared down at the blood-stained face, then he dropped on his knees again and began a hurried examination of the still figure.  “There’s a little life here —­not much, but some—­you was well worth fishing up!” be said approvingly, after a brief interval.  “Polly!” he called, raising his voice.

This brought Mrs. Cavendish from one of the two cabins that occupied the center of the raft.  She was a young woman, still very comely, though of a matronly plumpness.  She was in her nightgown, and when she caught sight of Yancy she uttered a shriek and fled back into the shanty.

“I declare, Dick, you might ha’ told a body you wa’n’t alone!” she said reproachfully.

Her cry had aroused the other denizens of the raft.  The tow heads of the six little Cavendishes rose promptly from a long bolster in the smaller of the two shanties, and as promptly six little Cavendishes, each draped in a single non-committal garment, apparently cut by one pattern and not at all according to the wearer’s years or length of limb, tumbled forth from their shelter.

“Sho’, Polly, he’s senseless!  But you dress and come here quick.  Now, you young folks, don’t you tetch him!” for the six small Cavendishes, excited beyond measure, were crowding and shoving for a nearer sight of Yancy.  They began to pelt their father with questions.  Who was it?  Sho’, in the river?  Sho’, all cut up like that—­who’d cut him?  Had he hurt himself?  Was he throwed in?  When did pop fish him out?  Was he dead?  Why did he lay like that and not move or speak—­sho’!  This and much more was flung at Mr. Cavendish all in one breath, and each eager questioner seized him by the hand, the dangling sleeve of his shirt, or his trousers—­they clutched him from all sides.  “I never seen such a family!” said Mr. Cavendish helplessly.  “Now, you-all shut up, or I ’low I’ll lay into you!”

Mrs. Cavendish’s appearance created a diversion in his favor.  The six rushed on her tumultously.  They seized her hands or struggled for a fragment of her skirt to hold while they poured out their tale.  Pop had fished up a man—­he’d been throwed in the river!  Pop didn’t know if he was dead or not—­he was all cut and bloody

“I declare, I’ve a mind to skin you if you don’t keep still!  Miss Constance,” Polly addressed her eldest child, “I’m surprised at you!  You might be a heathen savage for all you got on your back—­get into some duds this instant!” Cavendish was on his knees again beside Yancy, and Polly, by a determined effort, rid herself of the children.  “Why, he’s a grand-looking man, ain’t he?” she cried.  “La, what a pity!”