The boy was walking along the side of the old mill race. The waters were very swift at this point, for the current was strong and the river was deep. The boy was trudging along the weatherbeaten planks, with his hands in his pockets, looking very disconsolate.
“Lonely looking boy,” observed Tony. “They told him to run away and play. He looks as if he’d never played in his life.”
“We’ll go over and talk to him,” Frank decided. “If those old chaps say anything to us about being around here we’ll ask them to quote some prices on having some milling done.”
“I can do that!” exclaimed Chet. “Dad’s a farmer, and he’s often said he wished the old Turner mill was running again so he wouldn’t have to haul his grain so far.”
The boys emerged from the bushes and crossed the weed-grown open space near the front of the mill. The other lad had not yet seen them. He was standing by the mill race, some distance below, gazing into the water, now and then raising his head to look at the clacking wheel that turned monotonously in showers of dripping water.
“I’m curious about this patent food story,” Frank said. “It’s queer there wasn’t anything in the papers about it. Nobody except the farmers, like Stummer, seems to have heard about the mill being taken over.”
“Oh, probably they want to keep it to themselves until everything is ready,” Jerry pointed out. “I’ll bet you’re beginning to see some kind of mystery in this already, Frank. Chances are we’ll just get kicked off the premises for our pains.”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s any mystery about it,” said Frank, with a smile. “But I’m just curious to know what it’s all about.”
“No law against that,” Phil agreed. “If this breakfast food invention of theirs turns out to be something wonderful that makes us all live about twenty years longer, we can say we were among the very first to know about it.”
By this time they had drawn closer to the mill race, and the boy standing there had raised his head and seen them.
He was a good-looking fellow, not unlike Joe Hardy in appearance, as Carl Stummer had pointed out. But his face was pinched and drawn and there was a melancholy expression in his eyes.
“Looks as if he hadn’t had a square meal in a month,” Jerry remarked.
The boy turned and began to move toward Frank and Joe.
He had gone only a few paces, however, when they saw him suddenly stumble. He had stepped upon a loose stone that had rolled from beneath his foot.
He wavered uncertainly, striving to regain his balance. Then, with a shrill cry, he toppled over into the mill race and fell with a splash into the swiftly rushing torrent of water.
“Help!” he shouted, in terror. “Help!”
VIII
Joe’s Courage
The accident had happened so quickly that it was not for a few moments that the Hardy boys and their chums realized the lad’s danger.
Then, as they saw him struggling in the torrent, they began to run toward the spot to which the lad was being rapidly carried.
Joe was in the lead, and as he ran he was taking off his coat. Just below the mill race the river was full of rocks, and the rapids dashed over them in a boiling fury of spray and foam. If the youth were ever swept into the rapids he would be doomed.
The other lads were not far behind Joe. The accident had not been seen from the mill, for no one appeared in the doorway, and the cries of the boy in the river evidently had not been heard by the men in the building.
“Help!” he was shouting. “Help!”
He was struggling in the water, being swept irresistibly on toward the deadly rapids.
“I can’t swim!”
Joe reached the bank, paused to kick off his shoes, then stood poised for a moment above the rushing waters. He dived into the mill race, disappeared beneath the surface, then rose just a few yards away from the struggling boy.
The lad had already gone under once and was gasping for breath. He was just about to go under for the second time when Joe swam toward him with strong, steady strokes and grasped him by the collar.
Frantically, the boy tried to seize his rescuer, but Joe was ready for that. He knew that the unreasoning grip of a drowning person is of the utmost danger, so he managed to stay at arm’s length and at the back of the boy.
“Hold steady!” he shouted, above the roar of waters. “Hold steady! Keep cool!”
His words had some effect in restoring the lad to his senses and the boy, feeling the supporting grasp on his collar, ceased his struggles.
But the danger was not yet over. The current was so strong that they were both being carried headlong downstream toward the rapids.
Joe could see the jagged rocks silhouetted against a background of flying spray and foaming water. If once they were swept into that maelstrom they would be battered to death.
He was handicapped by the weight of the boy, but he turned toward the shore and exerted all his efforts in swimming toward the bank. But he made little progress. The current was too strong for him.
The other lads, running along the bank, were watching the scene in consternation.
“He’ll never make it!” declared Jerry. “The current is too much for him.”
They could see Joe’s tense face as he pitted his strength against the force of the current and desperately strove to make his way toward the bank. He was still clinging to the boy, who was commencing his struggles anew.
They were being swept closer to the rapids every moment. There were a number of rocks rising above the surface of the river just a few feet ahead, and beyond that was a smooth, deep, swiftly flowing sheet of water
