one would have supposed that wilfred, discredited and sensitive though he was, would have joined the excited throng which he saw running shoreward from the pavilion and from all the neighboring tents and cabins. for what he saw in the middle of the darkening lake was enough to obliterate animosity. surely in those terrible moments they would not trouble themselves to look on him askance. but he remained apart as he had always done, an isolated figure on the shore, as clamorous, excited scouts by the dozen crowded on springboard and shore.
out in the middle of the lake something was wrong. in the gathering darkness, wilfred could see what he thought to be the camp launch, and a voice, made almost inaudible by the adverse wind, was calling. it seemed as if it came from beyond the bordering mountains though he knew it must come from the lake. everything was hazy and the launch looked like the specter of a launch haunting the troubled waters.
then he noticed something else drifting rapidly nearer by. dumbfounded, he saw it to be the landing float which must have slipped its moorings. with it were half a dozen rowboats banging against each other, their chains clanking. the mass was being carried headlong across the lake. a quick inquiring glance showed wilfred that not a single boat was at the shore.
he was about two hundred feet alongshore from where the increasing crowd was; the scene was one of the wildest panic. from the excited talk he surmised that hervey willetts, the most notorious of the “independents” was about to pay the fatal penalty for taking the launch without permission.
“run along the shore, you’ll find a boat somewhere!” an excited voice called.
“lash a half a dozen planks together; get some rope, some of you fellows—quick! get a couple of oars!”
“we can scull to the float.”
“scull nothing; look at it, it’s driving toward east cove. we’ll scull right for the launch!”
“here, you kids, don’t try to run around to the cove, you’ll never make it. get more rope and pull that other plank loose—hurry up! the wind will help us.”
far across the water in the deepening, misty twilight, arose the voice, robbed of its purport by the adverse wind. and close at hand, among the frantic group, a clear cut, commanding voice.
“slip the rope under that next plank—that’s right—now tie it—quick—and lash it to this one—so! now pull the whole business around.”
amid all this excitement the lone figure that stood apart beheld a striking spectacle. a form, black and ghostly, stood barely outlined at the end of the diving-board.
“don’t try that,” an authoritative voice called. but it was too late. the figure went splashing into the angry water. little did wilfred dream that this was the boy who had won the radio set in the mary temple swimming contest. the voice out on the lake, strained in its frantic last appeal, could be heard now.
“heeeelp! heeeelp!”
removed from the throng, unseen, wilfred cowell kneeled, tore his shoe-laces out one after another and pushed off his shoes. he cast off his wet overcoat, his jacket, and wrenched away his scarf and collar. he did not know whether the pin that went with them was filled with new and lurid radiance, but may we not believe that it was? he stepped into the water and was soon beyond his depth.
wilfred tore his shoe-laces out and pushed off his shoes.
swiftly, steadily, evenly, he swam. with each long stroke he moved as if from the impetus of some enormous spiral spring. some one in the crowd espied him and a hundred eyes were riveted upon that head that moved along, widening the distance between it and the shore with a rapidity that seemed miraculous. who was it, they wondered? he seemed to glide rather than swim.
out, out, out, he moved toward the shadowy mass in the middle of the lake, rapidly, steadily, easily. straight as an arrow he sped, and neither wind nor choppy water deterred nor swerved him. in the gathering shadows they could see one arm moving at intervals above the churning surface, appearing and disappearing with the cold precision of machinery.
they watched this moving head, marveling, as the distance between it and the shore widened. nothing like this had ever been seen at temple camp before. the boisterous waves of the great salt ocean had supported this invincible form and carried those tireless, agile limbs up upon their white crests. but nothing like this, nothing approaching to it, had ever been seen at temple camp before. this wind-tossed lake, uttering its threat of death to that bewildered, frantic throng, was like a plaything in his hands. no fitful gust seemed to affect his steady fleetness.
with a quickness and ease that seemed absurd, he reached past and outstretched the other swimmer. the exhausted boy, with a courage greater than his strength, was glad enough to turn and seek shelter on the improvised raft which was now moving through the water under the difficult propulsion of several loose swung oars. from this they called to the mysterious swimmer to beware of his peril but he heeded them not, except to widen the distance between them and this lumbering rescue craft.
soon the widening distance and the falling darkness made it impossible for those upon the raft to see him at all. thus he disappeared before the straining vision of those followers who saw him last, and the boy who had won the mary temple contest sat panting on the makeshift raft as the fleeting specter dissolved in the night and was seen no more.
and still the voice far out called, “heeelp!” and the mountain across the lake mocked its beseeching summons in a gruesome undertone.
so, wandering willie, alone and unseen as usual, sped headlong in his triumphant race at last. no one “rooted” for him, no one cheered him.
but in the wet grass on shore far back where he had started, a sparkling gem, companion of his; loneliness and cheery reminder of his former exploit, blazed with fiery radiance in the black, tempestuous night.
