Charlie to the Rescue | Page 3

true, Shank; it does look dangerous, even for a man that can
swim."
He put such emphasis on the "man" that his comrade glanced sharply at
him, but the genuine innocence of our hero's face was too obvious to
suggest irony. He simply saw that the use of the word man pleased his

friend, therefore he used it.
Conversation was cut short at this point by the sudden appearance on
the scene of two strangers--a kitten and a dog.
The assertion that "dogs delight to bark and bite" is, perhaps, too
sweeping, but then it was made by a poet and poets have an
acknowledged licence--though not necessarily a dog-licence. Certain it
is, however, that this dog--a mongrel cur--did bark with savage delight,
and display all its teeth, with an evident desire to bite, as it chased a
delirious tortoise-shell kitten towards the river.
It was a round, soft, lively kitten, with the hair on its little body sticking
straight out, its heart in its mouth, and horror in its lovely eyes. It made
straight for the tree under which the dinner was going on. Both boys
started up. Enemies in front and rear! Even a human general might have
stood appalled. Two courses were still open--right and left. The kitten
turned right and went wrong, for that was the river-side. No time for
thought! Barking cur and yelling boys! It reached the edge of the pool,
spread out all its legs with a caterwaul of despair, and went headlong
into the water.
Shank Leather gazed--something like glee mingled with his look of
consternation. Not so our hero. Pity was bursting his bosom. With one
magnificent bound he went into the pool, caught the kitten in his right
hand, and carried it straight to the bottom. Next moment he re-appeared
on the surface, wildly beating the water with one hand and holding the
kitten aloft in the other. Shank, to do him justice, plunged into the river
up to his waist, but his courage carried him no further. There he stuck,
vainly holding out a hand and shouting for help.
But no help was near, and it seemed as if the pair of strugglers were
doomed to perish when a pitiful eddy swept them both out of the deep
pool into the foaming rapid below. Shank followed them in howling
despair, for here things looked ten times worse: his comrade being
tossed from billow to breaker, was turned heels over head, bumped
against boulders, stranded on shallows, overturned and swept away
again--but ever with the left arm beating wildly, and the right hand with

the kitten, held high in air.
But the danger, except from being dashed against the boulders, was not
really as great as it seemed, for every time that Brooke got a foothold
for an instant, or was driven on a rock, or was surged, right-end-up, on
a shoot of water, he managed to gasp a little air--including a deal of
water. The kitten, of course, had the same chances, and, being passive,
perhaps suffered less.
At the foot of the rapid they were whirled, as if contemptuously, into an
eddy. Shank was there, as deep as he dared venture. He even pushed in
up to the arm-pits, and, catching his comrade by the hair, dragged him
to bank.
"O Charlie, I've saved ye!" he exclaimed, as his friend crawled out and
sat down.
"Ay, an' you've saved the kitten too!" replied his friend, examining the
poor animal.
"It's dead," said Shank; "dead as mutton."
"No, only stunned. No wonder, poor beast!"
With tender care the rescuer squeezed the water from the fur of the
rescued. Then, pulling open his vest and shirt, he was about to place the
kitten in his bosom to warm it.
"No use doin' that," said Leather. "You're as wet an' nigh as cold as
itself."
"That's true. Sit down here," returned Brooke, in a tone of command
which surprised his comrade. "Open your shirt."
Again Shank obeyed wonderingly. Next moment he gave a gasp as the
cold, wet creature was thrust into his warm bosom.
"It makes me shiver all over," he said.

"Never mind," replied his friend coolly, as he got up and wrung the
water out of his own garments.
"It's beginning to move, Charlie," said Shank, after a few minutes.
"Give it here, then."
The creature was indeed showing feeble symptoms of revival, so
Brooke-- whose bosom was not only recovering its own heat, but was
beginning to warm the wet garments--thrust it into his own breast, and
the two friends set off homeward at a run.
At the nearest house they made inquiry as to the owner of the kitten,
but failed to find one. Our hero therefore resolved to carry it home.
Long before that haven was reached, however,