And the dam was well named, too, for it represented strength superseding weakness. If you should ever visit Temple Camp you should end your inspection in time to row across the lake in the cool of the twilight, when the sun has gone down behind the mountain, and take a look at Robin Hood's Dam.

The scene was the usual morning scene. The slanting sifter was dropping its rain of dirt through the grating and sending the stones rolling down. The mixer was revolving. A hundred feet or so from the shore the clumsy old dredge was drawing up sand from the bottom of the lake, and the big pipeline running to shore was pulsating so that the floats supporting it rocked in the water. At the end of this pipeline was a big pile of wet sand from the lake. Men were carrying this sand off in wheelbarrows.

A few of the scouts were busy at their favorite pastime of walking along this shaking pipeline to the dredge from which they would dive, then swim to the nearest point on shore and proceed again as before. Hervey Willetts had been the Christopher Columbus to discover this endless chain of pleasure and he had punctuated it with many incidental stunts.

It was not altogether easy to walk on the trembling wet piping, but those who did it were of course in bathing attire, and with bare feet it was not so hard, once one got the hang of it.

The sight of this merry procession proceeding on its endless round proved too much for one pair of eyes that watched wistfully from the shore. One after another the dripping scouts came scrambling up out of the water, proceeded to the shore end of the pipeline, walked cautiously along it, feet sideways, crossed the dredge, dived and presently appeared again. "Follow your leader" they were singing and it was funny to hear how they picked up the tune and got into time upon emerging.

This kind of thing was hard to resist. It is hard not to dance when the music is playing. There was an alluring fascination about it.

Suddenly, to the consternation of every one, there was Goliath in the procession, moving along the pipeline, keeping his foothold by frantic gesticulations with his arms. He was laughing all over his little face. He swayed, he bent, he almost fell, he got his balance, almost lost it, got along a few steps, and then down he went with a splash into the water.

This climax of his wild enterprise occurred in a gap of the procession. Some scouts had fallen out, others were clambering out the other side of the dredge. So it happened that the splash was the first thing to attract attention.

Goliath did not reappear and before any one had a chance to dive or knew just where to dive, something was apparent, which sent a shudder through Tom Slade, who was standing near the end of the pipeline. The pouring forth of the wet sand out of the pipe ceased, or rather lessened and the substance shot out in little jerks. Tom, ever quick to see the significance of a thing, knew this for what it was. It was an awful message from the bottom of the lake.

Something was clogging up the suction pipe there.



CHAPTER XXXV

THE HERO

This thing, as I said, all happened in a flash. There was shouting, there was running about....

"Stop the machinery!" some one yelled.

"Reverse your engine!"

Tom felt himself thrust aside, lost his balance and fell into the deposit of wet sand. The pouring out of this had ceased.

"Don't let him do that! He's crazy!" some one shrieked.

"Reverse the engine; he'll come up. Don't dive—you! You'll be chewed to pieces."

"Who dived?" said Tom, scrambling to his feet.

"The body will come up when the suction stops."

"Both bodies, you mean; that crazy fool dived."

"They won't come up if they're wedged in. Keep her going—reversed."

Everybody crowded to the shore and to the deck of the dredge. The pulsating of the big line had ceased. Men shouted to do this, to do that. Others contradicted. All eyes were upon the water. They crowded each other, watching, waiting....

Then a red spot appeared on the surface. It spread and grew lighter in color as it mingled with the water. The watchers held their breath—gasped. The tension was terrible.

Then (as I said, it all happened in a flash) a hand covered with blood reached up and tried to grasp the nearest float. It disappeared, but Tom Slade had seen it and, jumping to the float, he reached down.

"I've got him—keep back—you'll sink the float——"

"Don't let go."

It was not in the nature of Tom Slade to let go.

Presently a ghastly face with red stained hair streaming over it, appeared.

"Let me take him," said Tom.

But the man with bleeding, mangled shoulder would not give up what he held, as in a grip of iron, with his other arm.

And so Tom Slade dragged the wounded creature up onto the float and there he lay in a pool of blood, still clinging to his burden.

The little boy was safe. He opened his eyes and looked about. His face was smeared with mud, one of his shoes was gone, his foot seemed to be twisted. It was all too plain that he had been within the suction pipe, within the devouring jaws of that monster serpent, when his frantic rescuer had dragged him back. But he was safe.

His rescuer was utterly crazed. Yet he seemed to know Tom.

"Safe—alive——" he muttered.

"Yes, he's safe; lie still. Get the doctor, some of you fellows—quick."

"Send, send—them away—all. You know—do you—I'm square—yes?"

"Surely," said Tom soothingly. "Lie still."

"He's alive?"

"Yes."

"Listen, come close. I'll tell you—now. I murdered a kid once—now—now I've—I've saved one——"

"Shh. It's the same one, Harlowe."

"You—you know?"

"Yes, I know. We'll talk about it after. Hold your head still—quiet—that's right. Don't think about it now. Shh—I think your arm is broken; don't move it."

"I—I—killed——"

"No, you never killed any one. Lie still—please. I know all about it. We can't talk about it now. But you never killed any one, remember that."

"You know I'm Harlowe?"

"Yes. Don't talk. That was little Willie Corbett you saved. Now don't ask me any more now; please. You don't think I'm a liar, do you? Well, I'm telling you you never killed anybody. See? You're not a murderer, you're a hero. I know all about it.... Lie still, that's right.... Don't move your arm...."



CHAPTER XXXVI

Harlowe's Story

Aaron Harlowe was lying on his cot in the little rustic hospital at Temple Camp. It was worth being sick to lie in that hospital. It was just a log cabin. The birds sang outside of it, you could hear the breeze blowing in the trees, you could hear the ripple of paddles on the lake.

Tom Slade sat upon the side of the cot.

"You see when I found the map, I knew you had gone up the mountain. And I didn't think you'd go up there unless there was some one up there that you knew. The light was up there before you went up. Now that you tell me you went up there to hide with that friend of yours, everything fits together. I knew there must have been two of you up there, because I saw your footprint. You have a patch on the sole of your shoe and the dead man didn't. See? When I asked you to get out of the auto it was just because I wanted to see your footprint. Your always getting over to the left hand side of the road made me a little suspicious. Footprints don't lie and that clinched it."

"But did you see my image in the eyes of the dead man?" Harlowe asked weakly.

"I saw an image of a man; I couldn't tell it was you. But I knew some one else had been there. Do you feel like telling me the rest now? Or would you rather wait."

"You seem to know it all," Harlowe smiled. It was pleasant to see that smile upon his pale, thin face.

"It isn't what you know, it's what you do that counts," said Tom softly. "And see what you did. Talk about heroism!"

It was from the desultory talk which followed that Tom was able to piece out the story, the mystery of which he had already penetrated. Harlowe, in fear of capture after his supposed killing of the child, had sought refuge in the hunting shack of his friend upon the mountain. There the two had lived till the night of the storm. When Harlowe's friend had been crushed under the tree, Harlowe had bent over him to make sure that he was dead. It was then, in the blinding storm, that his license cards had fallen out of his pocket and, by the merest chance, on the open coat of the dead man.

Harlowe said that after that he had intended to give himself up, but that when he read that Harlowe had been discovered, and no doubt buried, he had resolved to let his crime and all its consequences be buried with the dead man, who like himself was without relations.

But Harlowe's conscience had not been buried, and it was in a kind of mad attempt to square himself before Heaven, and still the voice of that silent, haunting accuser, that he had performed the most signal act of heroism and willing sacrifice ever known at Temple Camp.

As Tom Slade emerged after his daily call on the convalescent, a song greeted his ear and he became aware of Hervey Willetts, hat, stocking and all, coming around the edge of the cooking shack. He was caroling a verse of his favorite ballad:

"The life of a scout is kind, is kind, His handbook he never can find, can find. He don't bother to look, In the little handbook. The life of a scout is kind."

"Hunting for your handbook, Hervey?"

"I should fret out my young life about the handbook."

"Walking my way?"

"Any way, I'm not particular."

"Cross come yet?"

"I haven't seen it. Do you think it would look good on my hat?"

"Why, yes," Tom laughed. "Only be sure to pin it on upside down."

"Why?"

"Why, because then when you're standing on your head, it'll be right side up. See?"

"Good idea. I guess I will, hey?"

"Sure, I—I double dare you to," said Tom.

END