The last camp was pitched on the banks of the Pend d’Oreille. Celluloid Bill pushed Frenchy from the shore in an old skiff, his only means of combating the swift current, a solitary broken oar. The riders watching the sport, thought that the victim would go insane. To all appearances, he knew nothing about rowing, and the deep muffled churning of the rapids was heard but a short distance below.39 When he saw that he was beyond immediate help from his associates, the Parisian began removing his cumbersome riding boots. This accomplished, he stood up, footgear in one hand. He gazed longingly at the surrounding mountains and the immediate woods; as though in a last farewell. The skiff, now in midstream was steadily gaining momentum. For one brief moment he hesitated, and then sprang overboard, to be directly overwhelmed by the turbulent tide.
Instantly the camp was a scene of animation. Celluloid, startled at the serious turn of his joke, did not falter. With catlike action he leaped to his saddle and drove into the stream. He saw the Toy come to the surface, to instantly sink again from sight. The rescuer wisely giving rein, the powerful horse cut the water like a racing canoe. Submerged to his hips, his new “chaps” were soaked. But what of that? He was going to rescue his “amoosement-man”—his “Toy.” The tanned cheek of the rider was a trifle pale. Just as he thought Frenchy gone for all time, he glimpsed his head appearing on the surge like a tossing pine cone, only to immediately disappear. Believing that he had seen the last of his companion, Bill, who stammered when under anger or great excitement, now turned in his saddle and yelled to those on shore:
“Th-there’s t-th’ la-last uv th’ po-pore d-de-devil! Wh-why in h-hell do-don’t s-so-some of yo’ pray?”
In a chorus the watchers urged him on. There was Frenchy’s head again. Bill continued the pursuit.
“I hater see the po’ cuss drown; I hater wade in the col’ water an’ fish him out,” lamented Silent Bob, as seated on a rock, he complacently observed proceedings.
The “drowning” man’s head was again visible, and notwithstanding the great distance, was caught in the loop of Celluloid’s out-flying lariat. Turning his horse shoreward, the “rescuer” called:
“Ca-catch ho-hold wi-with yo’ ha-han’s! I’ll pu-pull yo’ o-out!”
A hearty laugh went up from the bank as Bill, trailing his rope, approached the shore. He understood its significance when the “drowning” man passed him, swimming with the steady, powerful stroke of the professional. He turned beamingly to his “rescuer” and urged:
“Comet on! you dam-et fool! Mabee you shovet again ze boat. No?”
Bill reached shore disgusted and in very ill humor; the unrestrained chaffing by the boys but adding to his discomfiture. Passing the chuck-wagon, he unsaddled his dripping mount, taking unusual time in rubbing him dry. He felt beaten! tricked by the French Toy. His horse cared for, he sauntered to the camp fire, where the riders were complimenting Frenchy on his skill as a swimmer and his ability in coping with the most persistent of his tormentors. The Parisian was the first to mark the approach of the tall figure and challenged:
“I betcha I sweem ze re-var, coom back. I go ze bad ra-pads too! You no go? Yis?”
“Don’t care to swim any river tonight,” replied Celluloid with an effort at unconcern. “Too durn’ col’. All I’m sorry for is yo’ didn’t drown. The skiff is lost which was a heap more valerable than a lot of fellers I know roun’ here. It belonged to that there ‘Geezar’ over there and he’s stingy as hell. I’m a thinkin’ there’ll be th’ devil to pay. Say! Frenchy!” he exclaimed with sudden interest. “Yo’ got a lot of money an’ yo’ have to make good that there old tub. ’Sides, yo’ let it go a purpose an’ yo’ had all th’ fun. I have a pair boots I’ll give yo’, ’cause yo’ lost yo’ own.”
Frenchy was in high glee and readily agreed to settle for the missing craft. Bill was still more surprised at the aquatic skill of the “French water-frog” as he termed him, when he learned that the swimmer had saved his boots. Nonplussed, he inquired:
“Where did yo’ learn th’ water so like a duck?”
“I go ze swell collage. Profass-ar, I teach ze dook swim. I row ze boat good plen-ta.”
The boys had not dreamed that their Toy was a graduate from one of the highest educational institutions of France, and an instructor in boating and swimming; and that he commanded wealth sufficient to buy, many times over, the ranch and outfit for which he was working.
While Bill was drying his wet clothing at the fire, there came a hearty: “Hell‑o! boys!” and the “Geezar,” a tall, lank stockman and owner of the lost skiff, rode within the camp-light. Dismounting and dropping his bridle reins to the ground, he entered into conversation with Carter on general topics of the range and prospective beef prices. Noticing Bill, the “Geezar,” who stammered slightly, asked:
“Wh-what yo’ d-doin’, th-there, f-foller? B-bin s-sw-swimmin’?”
Bill’s anger immediately arose. He surmised that the boys had already acquainted the visitor with the river joke and that he was being made the center of all amusement for the camp; and that the “Geezar” was mimicking his weakness of speech. He answered belligerently:
“N-n-none of yo’ d-durn’ b-bi-bisnes! fe-feller!”
The “Geezar,” laboring under the same impression as was his opponent, retorted in no uncertain tones:
“I-I’ll m-ma-make it m-my b-bisness!”
Dropping his wet clothing, Bill sprang to his feet.
“Y-yo’ w-wh-white l-li-livered c-cur! I’m n-not go-goin’ to l-let a-any s-son of a gu-gun m-mo-mock m-my t-ta-talk!”
“I’m n-not mo-mockin’ you! Y-yo’re th’ o-one w-who’s m-ma-makin’ a d-dam’ fool of yo’ s-sel—”
Bill struck madly, but the “Geezar,” ducking, the blow went wild. He came back viciously, but Bill parried successfully and they clinched. Down they went in a heap, each struggling for the ascendancy. While Bill was the more
