The next afternoon, Wednesday, baseball practice started off with a dash that secretly delighted Payson’s heart. Outwardly, however, he was as calm and untroubled as ever. Alf had confided Dan’s theory to Millener, but the captain had let it go no further, and the team still labored under the delusion that they were spiting the coach. At the batting net, fellows who were scarcely known to hit the ball safely, worked in a perfect frenzy of ambition and pounded the leather all around the field. This put Reid, the substitute pitcher, on his mettle, and a regular duel ensued between him and the eager batters.

Gerald and Harry Merrow, on their way to the boathouse, paused a while behind the net and watched proceedings. One by one the players faced Reid until he had made some sort of a hit; Millener, Colton, Loring, Condit, Danforth, Durfee, Richards, and so on down the list of first team men and substitutes. When Alf cracked out a long, low drive that would have been good for three bases in a game, Gerald howled with glee, and again, when Dan managed to send a hard, low one just over Reid’s head, Gerald shouted “Good for you, Dan!” and didn’t at all mind the amusement he created. When the players left the net and trotted over to the diamond, Gerald and Harry continued on their way to the river, discussing the nine and the chances of victory. Harry was pessimistic.

“Broadwood’s got a crackajack of a team this year,” he said. “Look at the way they licked Porter! And that fellow Herring, their best pitcher, is a wonder. I saw him pitch last year.”

“Is he better than Colton?” asked Gerald. Harry frowned and hesitated.

“Well, he’s as good. But he isn’t the all-round player that Colton is. Colton can bat, you know; he’s the best batter we’ve got.”

“Alf Loring’s good, too,” said Gerald jealously.

“You bet he is! He and Colton are both dandies! Oh, it’s going to be a ripping game, all right. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. But, just the same, I look to see Broadwood win, say about five to four, or something like that.”

“I don’t believe she will,” answered Gerald.

“Want to bet?” asked Harry eagerly.

“I don’t bet, but—say, I’ll tell you what I will do, Harry. I’ve got a dandy stamp collection; three big books; some of them cost a lot of money. I’ve got almost all the real rare ones, too. Do you collect?”

“Yes, I used to. But I haven’t had any new ones lately. Why?”

“Well, if Broadwood wins I’ll give you my collection.”

“The—the whole thing?” asked Harry incredulously. Gerald nodded. Harry thought a moment, and then asked suspiciously;

“And if we win, what do I give you?”

“Nothing. If you did it would be just the same as betting, and father won’t let me bet. Is it a go?”

“Sure!” answered Harry. “Only—only it’s pretty one-sided, isn’t it? It doesn’t seem just right to take the stamps, Gerald.”

“That’s all right. Besides, I don’t believe you’ll have a chance. We’re going to win.”

“You wait and see,” said Harry. “How many stamps have you got?”

“I haven’t counted them lately,” replied Gerald carelessly. “Over two thousand, though.” Harry whistled. “I guess it’s only fair, though, to tell you that I—I’m tired of them. If you win I shan’t care much about the stamps, I mean.”

“I shall,” laughed Harry. “I don’t really want Broadwood to win, but—but, gee, I’d like to have those books!”

They lifted their canoe out, set it in the water and climbed into it.

“Where’ll we go?” asked Harry.

“Let’s go up to Flat Island, and then into Marsh Lake on the way back,” answered Gerald. “There’s Dyer and Burgess up there in that blue canoe. See ’em? Ready?”

They dug their paddles and headed upstream. There were a good many canoes out and Gerald and Harry had one or two brisk encounters on the way up. At Flat Island several canoes were pulled up onto the shore and a number of fellows were lolling about in the shade of the willows. They went on by the island for a quarter of a mile to where the river narrows, and then turned and floated back with the tide. Harry had got over his nervousness and no longer insisted on being close to shore.

“This is something like,” he said, settling comfortably down in the stern, where, with just a touch of his paddle now and then he could keep the canoe’s nose pointed right. And Gerald, laying his paddle across his knees, agreed. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the river never looked lovelier. It was pretty warm, but now and then a little breeze crept across the marshland, waving the tall, lush grasses, and brought relief. The river reflected the intense blue of the sky, the willows and alders along the bank were vividly green, and to Gerald came the fanciful thought that Nature was divided in its allegiance, displaying equally the colors of Yardley and Broadwood.

“Just the same,” he muttered half aloud, with a glance at the sky, “the blue’s on top!”

“Eh?” asked Harry sleepily.

To the left, over on the links, seven couples dotted the turf. Golf enthusiasts these, so intent on following the little white spheres that they had no thought for the temperature. Further along was the field, sprinkled with the blue-and-gray-uniformed ball players. Occasionally, when the breeze died away, the sharp crack of ball against bat reached the occupants of the canoe. Presently the mouth of the tiny stream which wound inward to Marsh Lake was reached, and the lads took up their paddles again to battle with the sluggish current. The canoe was headed in between the tall rushes, which in places almost met across the little passage, and all their ingenuity was required to keep their shallow craft from running aground on the bars and flats. It was very hot in here, and swarms of blood-thirsty mosquitoes were lying in wait for the adventurers.

“Who suggested coming in here?” asked Gerald, pausing in his paddling to defend himself from the hungry horde.

“You did,” responded Harry. “Don’t you wish you hadn’t? I’m just a mass of bites already.”

“Well, let’s get out of it,” said Gerald.

“Let’s keep on; it’s only a little ways more.”

Another turn of the winding stream and the bushes gave way and the canoe floated on Marsh Lake, a good-sized sheet of water, set in a wide, green sea of marsh grass and rushes, which extended for a good half-mile to the westward, and perhaps half that distance north and south. Now and then a clump of low bushes or a group of small willows stood up above the surrounding flatness. Blackbirds and bobolinks and sparrows held high carnival amidst the swaying reeds, frogs splashed and challenged gruffly, and the hum of thousands of insects filled the air. Into and out of the lake dozens of little streams made their way, all so much alike that it was the custom to thrust a paddle into the bank as one entered, so as to distinguish the outlet toward the river from the other streams which meandered in meaningless fashion across the marsh, twisting and doubling, and, in many cases, leading nowhere at all. So Harry stuck his paddle down into the mud at the bottom of the lake, near the margin, and left Gerald to propel the craft across the unruffled water.

They went very quietly, for sometimes there were adventures awaiting the visitor to Marsh Lake. It was a favorite place for ducks and loons and snipe, and more than one heron had been surprised there. But to-day they discovered nothing more remarkable than two big mud turtles, which slipped into the water from the log upon which they had been sunning themselves. A pair of kingfishers came winging across the marsh, looking for supper, but the first glimpse of the canoe sent them wheeling northward, scolding discordantly. Gerald paddled slowly around the lake, fighting off the mosquitoes, which, if less troublesome here than in the stream, were still annoying.

“Let’s go back,” he said finally. “There’s nothing here to-day. Sometime I’m coming up here to catch a turtle.”

“A dip-net’s the thing for them,” said Harry knowingly. “I’ve got one at home, and I’ll bring it along in the Fall.”

“I’ve heard you could catch them with a hook and a piece of raw meat,” Gerald replied. “I’d like to try it some time. Where’s that paddle, Harry?” Harry looked around.

“It ought to be over there,” he said finally, “but I don’t see it.”

“Neither do I. I thought, though, that—There it is; see? Gee, it’s lucky we put it there! I’d never have gone out that way.”

“I would,” answered Harry. “The river’s toward the east, you know, and—”

“And there are at least five outlets in that direction,” finished Gerald sarcastically, as he sent the canoe across the pond to where the paddle stuck out of the water.

“Stop paddling,” said Harry. “I can get it.”

He reached out and took hold of the paddle and gave it a tug.

“Come out of that,” he grunted.

“Wait till I push up nearer,” advised Gerald.

“Never mind; I can get it,” was the reply. Harry stood up gingerly in the canoe, and gave a mighty tug at the paddle. It came up so quickly that he lost his balance, the paddle flew over his head, and the canoe rocked dangerously. Making a frantic effort to recover his balance, Harry fell with one knee against the opposite edge of the craft, and in the next moment both boys were in the water.

Gerald came up sputtering and laughing. “You’re a nice one!” he cried. He had kept hold of his own paddle, but the one which had caused the catastrophe was floating a good ten feet away, while the canoe, which had promptly righted itself, was rocking sluggishly, half full of water, just beyond reach. Gerald thought he could touch bottom, but when he tried it, he found that in spite of the fact that he was hardly a dozen feet from shore, he was still over his depth. Then he looked for Harry. That youth was nowhere to be seen, and Gerald, with one hand on the canoe, stared about him in perplexity and a growing uneasiness.

“Harry!” he called.

There was no answer. The surface of the pond was still and untroubled. For an instant he thought that perhaps his companion had waded ashore, and was hiding in the bushes and reeds. But there hadn’t been time for that. With growing horror, Gerald realized that Harry had not come to the surface after he had sunk; that he was down there—somewhere—caught, perhaps, in the mud—drowning!

A wild desire for flight almost overpowered him. For a moment longer he clung desperately to the canoe, white of face and with staring eyes fixed in terror on the calm surface of the treacherous pond. Then, with an inarticulate cry and an awful fear clutching at his heart, he tore himself loose from the canoe and dove.

Baseball practice had been longer to-day, and a five-inning game with the Second Nine had brought it to a close at a few minutes before five. Up in the gymnasium there was a merry babel of voices, mingled with the rushing of water in the shower baths. Dan had played at third for a part of the time, and now, glowing from his work and the subsequent shower, he was dressing himself leisurely and happily in the locker-room, listening to the talk about him, and now and then throwing in a word. The windows were open and the steam was writhing out into the sunlight. Payson had taken his departure and the discussion of the day’s work was free and untrammelled. To be sure, Andy Ryan was still present, but every one knew that Andy never carried tales. And so Lawrence, who played rightfield, and was in the First Class, wasn’t mincing matters in his loud criticism of Payson. Millener was trying to “call him down,” but every one was talking at once, and his efforts were not very successful. The discussion was waxing vehement when the swinging door at the foot of the stair was thrown open and an excited youth stumbled in.

“Have you fellows heard the news?” he cried.

The confusion ceased and all faces turned toward him.

“Young Pennimore and another fellow, Merrill, or something like that, were drowned just now over in Marsh Lake!”