  Red Garrity slouched through the wide gates of the Wharton Smelter Company and glanced indolently up and down the street. His application for a job had just been turned down by the superintendent, but that did not trouble him over much. He was used to it. In fact anything else would have surprised him after the caustic comment which had followed his last self determined vacation. He was a good worker—when he worked. But his habit of taking days off whenever he felt in the mood did not commend him to many employers of labor. “Bum outfit to work for, anyhow,” he yawned, feeling in his pocket for a cigarette. He neither found one nor the means of purchasing a fresh supply, and for the first time he looked annoyed. He would certainly have to land a job to-morrow and get some kale, he thought, as he strolled up the street toward Shrimp McGowan’s abode. He decided to try a certain wood working concern where he was little known, and dismissed the subject from his mind. Shrimp was at home and responded to his yodel. As he slouched down the steps, yawning and blinking in the bright sunlight, a look of contempt came into Garrity’s eyes. “Watcher been doing?” he demanded. “Sleeping?” McGowan gaped again and nodded. “Nothing else to do,” he drawled. Garrity sniffed scornfully and stifled a longing for Chick Conners, to whom he had not spoken for weeks. Whatever failings the latter youth might have, at least he had always been up and doing and ready for excursions of any sort Red might suggest. “Well, there’s something doing now,” the latter remarked briefly. “We’re going out on the river road.” Shrimp showed no signs of delight at the prospect, but after a weak protest he yielded—as he always did. He could not understand Red’s partiality for these country walks. It never occurred to him that the woods and fields and river could hold a subtle charm for this domineering boy who constantly belittled them in words and talked boastingly and regretfully of the lights and bustle and crowded excitements of the city. Indeed, Garrity had never really admitted as much even to himself, and in the old days he and Chick had always been at odds regarding the relative merits of town and country. The road they took followed the windings of the Monhegan River. Overhead the sky was cloudless. The air was warm and mellow, yet with a tonic freshness in it which stirred the blood. The trees were beginning to turn, and their reds and yellows contrasted strongly with the dark bulk of pine and hemlock. Across the distant hills lay a faint, mellow Autumn haze. It was a day to thrill any boy, and Garrity was perfectly conscious of its charm. As usual, however, he growled and grumbled at the dullness of the country, and talked longingly of his beloved Bowery, but somehow Shrimp’s slavish agreement failed to give him pleasure. They threw stones at birds and squirrels, tossed rocks into the river and slashed at trees and bushes with destructive knives. They strolled erratically, visiting several orchards on the way, and finally reached the point where the stream, narrowing between rocky banks, flowed deep and swift toward a picturesque waterfall which made a favorite spot for picnicers and campers. Here they sat down in the shade of the hemlocks to eat their spoils. “Funny you never came out with the bunch to swim,” remarked McGowan after an interval of silent munching. “I s’pose you’re a wonder at it,” he added with a touch of spiteful sarcasm that was characteristic. For a second the ever-ready Garrity hesitated, his eyes fixed on the rushing water six feet below the steep bank. “I ain’t any wonder, but I’m good enough,” he boasted. “After swimming in the East River there ain’t any particular fun splashing around in this dump. Where do you go in? Right here?” “Gee, no! It’s too darn swift and rocky. There’s a nice pool below the falls, about a mile down. Anybody’d be a nut to try to here.” “Huh!” grunted Garrity. “I guess I could take care of myself all right. Say! Looka that squirrel over there. Want to see me bean him?” He sprang up and reached hastily for a loose stone lying on the very edge of the steep bank. For most of the way this was solid rock, but just here there happened to be a treacherous patch of moss-grown earth. Red’s eyes were fixed on the inquisitive little animal perched on the opposite bank, and he stepped rather closer to the edge than he intended. The next instant he felt a sickening give beneath his feet and made a wild, panicky effort to regain his balance. It failed. Clawing desperately at the smooth surface of the bank, he felt himself plunging down the deep incline, heard a smothered cry from Shrimp, and struck the water with a tremendous splash. It seemed icy cold, and Red was smitten instantly by a keen despairing horror. In spite of his recent boasting, he had never ventured into the East River, or any other. All he knew of swimming was a few primitive strokes learned in one visit to a Y. M. C. A. pool which had never been repeated. Even those were forgotten during that smothering, choking immersion. When he finally came to the surface he struck out wildly, beating the water blindly and ineffectually with his hands. Already he had swept far past the spot where he had fallen in. Shrimp was nowhere to be seen. There was no one in sight—nothing save the cruel rocky banks and the blurred shadows of the hemlocks past which he was tossed helplessly. In those awful moments which seemed like hours, a swift procession of vivid, fantastic pictures whirled through Red’s despairing brain. Then his head went under again and a moment later, dazed and half senseless, he felt himself driven against something hard and solid at which he clutched with all the strength and energy of desperation. It was a boulder jutting up in midstream. For a moment Red’s progress was stayed, but he knew that it was only the briefest respite. The swirling current tugged at his legs and body; his numbed fingers slipped and slid across the smooth, waterworn surface. He thought of the fall below with its torrent of water thundering down to that bed of sharp pointed, fantastic rocks, and a gurgling, choking cry of horror and despair burst from his blue lips. |
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