But something happened before the next race, happened almost while Tom was still shouting through his funneled hands. He and Clif and the dozen or so others who had remained about the boathouse had clustered either on the float or along the edge of the water to get the message from the launch. Loring, in the back seat of the automobile, had been left alone in his glory a matter of ten yards up the little grassed slope. Perhaps in his delight over the victory he stirred himself enough to jar the car, for there was a _snap_ as the emergency brake released and a jolt as a rear wheel went over the inadequate stone placed before it. It was then that Loring’s shout of alarm reached the others. Perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that it reached Tom, for many voices were raised and through the babel Loring’s voice carried no message to most of the group. But Tom heard, looked and realized. The crazy vehicle was rolling slowly down the slope, heading for the edge of the lake. With an able-bodied boy in it, Tom would probably have remained where he was and laughed himself to death, for the automobile, after pitching a bit over a few loose rocks near the margin, would doubtless drop comfortably over the two-foot wall and come to a stop with the water no higher than its floor-boards, and even if its occupant had elected to stand by the ship no harm could come to him. But it was a different story with Loring in the car, and Tom didn’t stop to laugh. He made a flying leap from the float to the low wall, hurling an inoffending youth head-over-heels in his flight, and charged up the slope. “The Wreck of the Hesperus” had started what she may have intended for her final voyage slowly and demurely, but with every foot traversed she had gathered speed, and when Tom reached her she was coming at a determined pace. He went up the slope with a yell that brought every head around, and on the instant other feet pounded behind his. But he couldn’t wait for help, and he knew it. Nor did he dare to try to reach the brakes. All that he could do was charge into the little car, head down and shoulders hunched, just as he might have charged into an opposing lineman. There were no falderals on “The Wreck,” no bumper to keep Tom from coming to close grips. He crouched and met the radiator with his left shoulder, digging his shoes into the sod.