"We've only got one oar," answered a desperate voice.

"Put it over the stern and scull it," directed someone on the float. There was a splash in reply, and Innes, who had promptly vacated his seat, crawled dripping to the landing. Hatherton, Williams, Norton and Marvin were already swimming desperately toward the mouth of the cove, while several fellows on land were running hard to the point, following the curving shore. The rowboat was at last under way, but making slow progress. Norton was the best swimmer of the trio, or, at least, the fastest, and Williams and Marvin were soon hopelessly in the rear. But Norton, if he could distance the other two, found that he was gaining but slowly on Tom, who, swimming as he had never swam before, as he didn't know he could swim, was already well out toward the mouth of the cove.

His limbs were aching already, and his lungs were hurting as he fought his way through the water and against a slow-coming tide. But the only thought that possessed him was that Steve was in trouble out there, perhaps drowning, and that he must get to him. The water splashed into his eyes and blinded him, for Tom was not an adept swimmer, and not once could he so much as sight Steve. Neither was the appeal for help repeated and Tom's heart sank. Behind him, as he was dimly aware, others were following, and he wished they would hurry. Once, when he was opposite the points, he tried to call, but his lungs were too tired to respond in more than a whisper. Then he was past the gloom of the cove, the water was alight with the afterglow and little choppy waves dashed against him. Gasping, he paused an instant, brushed one arm against his dripping face and looked about him. For a moment nothing met his anxious gaze. Then a darker spot on the darkening water appeared a dozen yards away and Tom went on desperately, panic-stricken for fear that when he reached it it would prove to be only a bit of driftwood.

But it wasn't. It was Steve, Steve on his back, with only his head and shoulders above the water, eyes closed in a dead-white face and his arms weakly moving now and then as though in an unconscious endeavour to keep the helpless body afloat. A great wave of relief and joy almost stopped Tom's heart for an instant. Then his hand went out and caught one of Steve's wrists.

"It's all right, Steve," he gasped weakly. "Don't grab me. They're coming with the boat."

There was no reply from Steve, and Tom, pulling the arm over his shoulder, as he had seen Steve himself do so many times in the tank when illustrating the way to rescue a drowning person, felt the weight of the inert form on his back as he turned and strove to swim slowly back toward the cove. To swim with one arm, even to keep himself afloat so, was no light task for Tom, and now, with the weight of Steve's body bearing him down, he found the struggle too much for him. He relinquished all attempts to swim and centred his efforts in keeping afloat. If only Norton and the rest would come! He listened. There was a splashing somewhere nearby, but it was too dark now to see a dozen feet away. Tom drew all the breath he could find into his lungs and let it out in a weak shout.

"Help!" he gasped. "Here!"

Then there was an answering hail from close by, a mighty churning of the water and a dim form plunged alongside.

"Have you got him?" cried Norton. "Give him to me, Hall. Hath! Over here!"

Tom didn't relinquish quite all his burden, though. He still had one of Steve's arms around his neck when, a minute later, Marvin and Williams having reached them meanwhile, the rowboat appeared out of the darkness. It was no light task to get Steve into the boat, but it was accomplished somehow, and then, Tom dragging astern, hands clutching the gunwale grimly, and the others, too, claiming at least partial support from the boat, the rescuers turned shoreward. Wisely, Churchill, who handled the oar, headed the boat toward the nearer point, and when the keel grounded, eager hands were waiting to lift Steve out and hurry him back to the hotel. Tom crawled out of the water and subsided on the bank, still fighting for breath and feeling rather sick at his stomach. Between Fowler and Milton he was lifted and half carried, weakly protesting that he could walk all right and promptly crumpling up when they allowed him to try.

Steve had been taken up to the room he was occupying, and Danny Moore was administering to him when Tom was brought in and laid on his bed. Steve was already talking weakly and Danny was telling him to keep still.

"Don't be talking," he said. "Fit that bottle to your back and keep covered up. You'll be fine in an hour. An' who've you got there? Well, if it ain't my old friend Jim Hall!"

Tom smiled faintly as Danny bent over him.

"An' so you been tryin' to drown yourself too, have you?" continued Danny. "Well, well,'tis queer tastes you have, the two of you! Drink a bit o' this, Jim, and lie still."

Mr. Robey came in and Danny nodded reassuringly to him. "They'll be fine as fiddles in an hour, Coach. Now you boys scatter out o' here an' leave them have a bit nap."

Tom didn't remember much for awhile after that, for he must have fallen promptly to sleep. When he awoke, the light was turned low and Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed. On a chair beside him was a tray from which appetizing odours curled toward him. Tom blinked sleepily.

"Hello," he murmured. "What's up?"

"I am and you're not," answered Steve. "I've brought you some supper. Are you hungry?"

Recollection returned then and Tom observed his chum anxiously.

"Are you all right!" he demanded. "Did they say you could get up?"

"Of course. You can too after you eat. But you were asleep and Danny said you might as well have it out. How are you feeling?"

Tom sat up experimentally and took a deep breath. "All right," he answered stoutly, although as a matter of fact he was full of stiff spots and queer aches. "And—and I'm hungry."

"Good stuff!" laughed Steve. He lifted the tray to Tom's lap and took the covers from the dishes. "There isn't an awful lot here," he added apologetically, "but Danny said you'd be better if you didn't eat such a big supper. Do you mind?"

"No, I guess there's enough. That soup smells good. What's that there? Roast beef? Fine!" And Tom fell diligently to work.

Steve watched in silence a moment. Then,

"I say, Tom," he said.

"Huh?" asked the other, his mouth full.

"You know I—I'm much obliged."

Tom nodded carelessly. "All right," he said in a gruff voice. "It wasn't anything. Norton and Williams and those others did it."

"You got there first," said Steve. "I guess if you hadn't I—I wouldn't have waited for the rest. It was mighty plucky, and—and I——"

"Oh, cut it," growled Tom. "It wasn't anything, you ass. What the dickens did you go away out there for anyway?" Tom became indignant. "Haven't you got any sense?"

"Not much," laughed Steve. Then, soberly, "It's the first time I ever had cramps, and I don't ever want them again! I thought I was a goner there for a while, Tom. They caught me right across the small of my back and I couldn't any more move my legs than I could fly. All I could do was shout and wiggle my arms a bit, and the pain was just as though something—say a swordfish—was cutting me in two!" Steve shook his head soberly. "It—it was fierce, Tom!"

"Serves you right! You had no business swimming way out there in water like that and scaring us all to pieces!" Tom was very severe as to language, but the effect was somewhat marred by the fact that he had filled his mouth with food. Nevertheless, Steve took the rebuke quite meekly. All he said was:

"And think of you rescuing me, Tom! Why, you aren't any sort of a swimmer! But it certainly was mighty pluck——"

Tom pointed a fork at Steve and interrupted indignantly. It was necessary to head Steve off from further expressions of gratitude. "I like your cheek!" said Tom. "Can't swim! How do you suppose I got out there to you, you silly chump? You didn't see any water-wings or life-preservers floating around, did you? Or do you think I walked? Can't swim! Well, of all the——"

"You know what I mean, Tom. I meant you couldn't swim—er—well, that you weren't a wonder at it!"

"Huh!" grunted Tom. "Don't you talk about swimming after this. You weren't doing much of it when I got to you!"

"No one can swim when he has cramps," responded Steve meekly. "How was the supper?"

Tom gazed at the empty dishes. "All right—as far as it went. I'm going to get up. What time is it and what's going on downstairs?"

"Nothing much just now. We just got through supper. They're taking the chairs and tables out of the dining-room so we can have signal drill at eight. Mr. Robey said you were to get into it if you felt all right. There's someone else downstairs who wants to see you too." And Steve grinned wickedly. "I told him I'd try to arrange an interview."

"Who is it?" asked Tom suspiciously.

"His name is Murray."

"I don't know any Murray. What is this, a joke?"

"Far from it, Tom. Mr. Murray is a newspaper man. He came over to get the line-up for to-morrow's game from Mr. Robey and got here just as they were talking about that silly stunt of mine. He laid around and waited for me and got it all out before I knew he was a newspaper chap. Now he wants to see you. I think he wants your photograph, Tom!"

"You were a silly ass to talk to him, Steve. He will go and put it in the paper, I suppose."

"Wouldn't be surprised," agreed Steve, smiling. "He seemed to think he had a fine yarn. Of course I laid it on pretty thick about your heroism and all that."

Tom viewed him darkly as he got into his coat. "If you did I'll—I'll——"

"Take me back to the Sound and drop me in again! No, I didn't, Tom, but he does know all about it and of course he will put it in the papers. 'Boots' says the—the Something-or-Other Press will get hold of it and send it all over the country. I've been wondering whether we ought to telegraph the folks so they won't have a fit if they read about it to-morrow."

"What's the use? They'll know you're all right. Bet you that Mr. Newspaper Man doesn't catch me, though! Who's that hitting the ivories?"

"Gleason, I guess. He was playing before supper. He's fine, too. Knows a whole bunch of college songs and stuff from the musical shows. We're going to have a concert after practice. They say Danny Moore can sing like a bird. Andy was telling me that last year they had a regular vaudeville show here. Everybody did something, you know; sang or danced or spoke a piece. It must have been lots of fun. I wish——"

Steve, who had been wandering around the room, hands in pockets, paused as he caught the expression on Tom's face. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"That's what I want to know," replied Tom. "Seems to me you're mighty chatty all of a sudden. Is it the effect of the bath?"

Steve smiled, sighed and shook his head. "Tom," he said, "I've just got to talk or do something this evening. I—I'm as nervous as a—a cat! Ever feel that way?"

Tom viewed him scornfully as he patted his tie into place. "Have I? Why, you silly chump, I'm scared to death this minute! Whenever I think about—about to-morrow I want to run down to the ocean and swim straight across to Africa!"

"Honest?" Steve brightened perceptibly. "But you don't show it, Tom."

"What's the good of showing it? All I hope is that the barge will make so much noise going back to-morrow that you won't hear my knees knocking together!"