do?"

Of course he could not have climbed in, if he had been obliged to lift himself all the way up, but every ounce of weight he put upon the side of the boat brought it down further and further, until it was hardly two inches above the roughening water.

"Now for it!" All the strength he had left went into that last effort, and then Barry was lying on the bottom of the boat, with his wet head on the shining front of Sime Hopkins's shirt bosom.

He did not try to guess how long he lay there. Even after he could have moved, he had no heart to lift his head and look toward the shore.

At last, just after he had covered his eyes with both hands, there came upon his ears the sound of oars, as if some very zealous rower were pulling for a prize in some regatta, and behind that sound was another, as if some fellow had suddenly burst out crying.

A heavy "bump" against the side of the skiff.

"Here he is! Oh, Barry!"

"Sime, is that you? Don't say a word, Sime—I can't."

It was some little time before either of them could say much, but they had both learned just about how far they could swim; and old Purdy sat there in his stolen boat, his rough face all one redness and radiance. All even he could find to say was,

"Ain't I glad! Jim Burr won't mind my bustin' of his lock a mite; but I'll git him another."