"I WONDER," said Marjory, who, perched on the edge of the bank, was shaking the sand from a dried bathing suit, "what's happened to Mabel. She's running down the beach like mad. And calling! I guess she wants somebody."
"If you'd keep quiet," suggested Henrietta, "perhaps you could hear what she says."
"It's 'Mr. Bla-a-a-a-a-ack!'" mimicked Marjory.
Mabel was breathless by the time she reached the foot of the steep sand bank, just below the camp.
"Oh," she panted. "Mr. Black—get him, quick. And, Jean, you come. And, Mrs. Crane—scissors! I must have scissors. Phew!"
"Be quiet a moment," advised motherly Mrs. Crane, from the bank. "Sit right down where you are and rest till you get your breath. Marjory, you're the quickest—you run for Mr. Black; he's just started for the wigwam to see if he can find Dave. Jean, I'll trust you with my scissors; but I'm going to tie them to you with a piece of string. There! Now we'll go down to Mabel.
"Now," said Mrs. Crane, when that stout lady had made a careful descent of the sandy bank, "tell us exactly what's happened, Mabel."
"It's a boy!" panted Mabel, "and he isn't dead."
"Most boys aren't," encouraged Bettie, who had a large number of lively brothers. "Go on, Mabel."
"I found him on the beach."
"Well," scoffed Henrietta, "I guess a boy on a beach isn't anything so wonderful."
"How did he get there?" queried Mrs. Crane.
"Washed up, I guess. I thought he was drowned. He's most dead."
"Where? Where?" shrieked Henrietta, with sudden interest.
"Where? Where?" echoed Bettie.
Just then Marjory flung herself breathlessly over the edge of the bank with Mr. Black, also short of breath, close at her heels.
"What's it all about?" demanded Mr. Black. "Has Mabel fallen in again?"
"Get the bread-knife, somebody," ordered Mabel, now sufficiently recovered to scramble to her feet, "and follow me."
"I have a knife," said Mr. Black, displaying as bloodthirsty a bit of cutlery as one would want to see. "Saunders thought I might need a hunting knife. If you've caught a deer I'll skin him for you."
"I guess," laughed Bettie, "she doesn't want her game skinned. She's found a boy."
Presently the procession, headed proudly by Mabel, who now felt very important indeed and would allow none of her impatient followers to pass her, was marching up the beach. She was, however, too breathless for speed.
"Couldn't you go a little faster?" pleaded Marjory.
"No, I couldn't," panted Mabel. "And, if you run ahead of me, you won't know where to turn off—so there."
"Tell us more about it," begged Henrietta. "I've always been crazy to rescue a shipwrecked crew!"
"No," said Mabel, "I want my breath to walk with."
Fortunately, the beach was smooth and hard; the excited campers soon reached the cove. Mabel, thoughtfully pausing long enough for Mrs. Crane and Bettie to catch up, led them to the big, half-buried log.
"There!" said she, pointing to what was behind it. "That's the boy."
Bettie, Marjory, and Henrietta peered eagerly over the log. Jean, Mrs. Crane, and Mr. Black hurried behind it. Mr. Black whipped out his knife, dropped to his knees, and began to cut at the mesh of the stout net. After a moment Jean assisted with the scissors.
Mrs. Crane patted the boy's hand and laid her own motherly palm against his cheek.
"Poor lamb! Poor lamb!" she murmured.
Presently the lad was freed from the net and the life-preserver and gently lifted from the wet wreckage to the warm, dry sand. His eyes were closed, his breathing jerky and strange, his whole countenance deeply flushed. Big tears rolled down Mabel's cheeks as she looked at the limp, pathetic figure.
"That boy," said Mrs. Crane, "is terribly ill with a fever. Goodness only knows how long he's been imprisoned here, chilled and shivering, before this fever came on."
"Or just when the waves flung him behind that log," said Mr. Black. "It might have been early last night, any time yesterday, or even during the previous night. He was lashed to something with that net—yes, here it is; a piece of rotten pole as thick as my arm—possibly a mast or part of a raft. But what concerns us just now is what we're to do for him."
"He's certainly a sick boy," agreed Mrs. Crane, "and there's nobody but us to help him."
"Mabel," said Mr. Black, "you'd better take off his shoes—he'll be lighter without them. Sarah, you'd better hurry back to camp and fix a bed for him in your tent. Jean, you go with her, build a fire, and put some water on to boil—a little hot broth might help. If you other girls will boost him a little, when I say the word, I think I can carry him."
The girls boosted. Mr. Black, with the long, thin boy hanging limply over his shoulder, started toward camp. Mabel, a wet shoe dangling from each hand, plodded after.
"Isn't it exciting?" breathed bright-eyed Henrietta, falling into line. "A boy right out of the skies."
"I guess you mean right out of the lake," corrected Marjory. "I hope he'll wake up pretty soon—I'm dying to know how he got behind that log."
"Perhaps it was a good thing," said Bettie, "that the log was there. The end of that pole swung under the log and held him right there, or the waves might have carried him out again or hurled him against the rocks—ugh!"
"His father," declared Henrietta, dreamily, "was the captain of a gallant ship. When the vessel was about to sink he said: 'Men! Save yourselves. As for me, I perish with her.' Then he lashed his only son to the mast of the sinking ship——"
"What for?" demanded practical Marjory.
"I guess maybe he didn't," amended Henrietta, reflectively. "He made a raft out of one of the hatches and tied him to that with the only thing he had at hand—a fish-net."
"But first," added Marjory, "he fastened a life-preserver about him."
"If I could run the way I used to," said thoughtful little Betty (this was the longest walk she had taken since her arrival at Pete's Patch), "I'd rush ahead and help Mrs. Crane with that bed. As it is, I'm willing to help with one of the baskets we're coming to—I guess Mabel's forgotten all about them."
"I'll help Mrs. Crane," promised nimble-footed Marjory, "if you and Henrietta will bring the wood—they may need it for the fire that Jean is to build."
Mr. Black undressed the thin, still-unconscious lad, wrapped him in a warm blanket (his feet, Mrs. Crane said, were like lumps of ice), and tucked him into bed.
"If we were in town," declared Mrs. Crane, "I'd send for the doctor."
"Just what I'm going to do, as soon as Dave turns up. I'll go to his wigwam now—perhaps he's back. Too bad there isn't any medicine——"
"But there is," said Mrs. Crane. "Mrs. Tucker sent a bottle to Bettie to be used in case her fever should return. She sent a tonic, too, but neither bottle has been opened. If you think it's safe——"
"Good for Mrs. Tucker! Give that boy a dose of the fever medicine—he certainly needs that. Now for Dave—I'd like to get him started for Lakeville at once."
Dave, however, was not to be found. His ways were strange and mysterious; he had an inconvenient habit of disappearing without warning for hours at a stretch. No one would see him go. He would set out, ostensibly for his wigwam; but if Mr. Black followed him to that habitation, as he sometimes did, no sign would he find of Dave. This time, the canoe was gone, also, and, of course, Dave's dog.
"He hasn't shown up," said Mr. Black, returning from the wigwam. "I suppose he rose at daybreak and took to the lake; for his canoe isn't in the river. And here I am paying him to bring water and wood for us and help with the boats."
"Paying him!" gasped Mrs. Crane, "when he lived on your land for four years without paying rent? Peter!"
"Well," returned Mr. Black, "it's only a dollar a day. Perhaps that isn't enough—I'll raise his wages!"
"But that poor boy——"
"We'll just have to wait until Dave gets back, I suppose. But you can dose the boy with Bettie's fever medicine—not the tonic—and perhaps we can pull him through."
"Anyway, we'll try," assured Mrs. Crane.