were about fifty feet from the boy.
Shooting by on his side, with a long stroke and a plunge of his body like
a projectile, the dark face with the long, black hair plastering it turned
toward his own, in fierce triumph Silver Tassel cried "How!" in derision.

Billy Rufus set his teeth and lay down to his work like a sportsman. His
face had lost its roses, and it was set and determined, but there was no
look of fear upon it, nor did his heart sink when a cry of triumph went up
from the crowd on the banks. The white man knew by old experience in the
cricket-field and in many a boat-race that it is well not to halloo till
you are out of the woods. His mettle was up, he was not the Reverend
William Rufus Holly, missionary, but Billy Rufus, the champion cricketer,
the sportsman playing a long game.

Silver Tassel reached the boy, who was bruised and bleeding and at his
last gasp, and, throwing an arm round him, struck out for the shore. The
current was very strong, and he battled fiercely as Billy Rufus, not far
above, moved down toward them at an angle. For a few yards Silver Tassel
was going strong, then his pace slackened, he seemed to sink lower in the
water, and his stroke became splashing and irregular. Suddenly he struck a
rock, which bruised him badly, and, swerving from his course, he lost his
stroke and let go the boy.

By this time the mikonaree had swept beyond them, and he caught the boy by
his long hair as he was being swept below. Striking out for the shore, he
swam with bold, strong strokes, his judgment guiding him well past rocks
beneath the surface. Ten feet from shore he heard a cry of alarm from
above. It concerned Silver Tassel, he knew, but he could not look round
yet.

In another moment the boy was dragged up the bank by strong hands, and
Billy Rufus swung round in the water toward Silver Tassel, who, in his
confused energy, had struck another rock, and, exhausted now, was being
swept toward the rapids. Silver Tassel's shoulder scarcely showed--his
strength was gone. In a flash Billy Rufus saw there was but one thing to
do. He must run the rapids with Silver Tassel--there was no other way. It
would be a fight through the jaws of death; but no Indian's eyes had a
better sense for river-life than William Rufus Holly's.

How he reached Silver Tassel, and drew the Indian's arm over his own
shoulder; how they drove down into the boiling flood; how Billy Rufus' fat
body was battered and torn and ran red