When the two speeding boys rounded the distant curve in the bank, a thrilling scene unfolded before their anxious eyes. The ruffianly Fagan, his headlong flight blocked by a bog that came down to the river edge, was jumping from rock to rock, across a narrow, shallow stretch of water that lay between the main bank and a wooded island, one of several that dotted the stream bed at this point. The vengeful Bill Brown was only a few paces behind him, and such was his superior agility that he was fast gaining on the fleeing desperado. Finally the frantic Fagan, now only one jump ahead, came to a halt on a flat, level rock, some two yards in diameter, that lay midway between island and bank. Around this rock the water churned fiercely, then foamed away amid other, more jagged rocks to the lower point of the island, where it united with the main current. This sudden about-face of his quarry did not lessen the determination of the oncoming scout. With a swift leap he bridged the intervening water, and came to a crouched landing on the same flat-topped rock occupied by the defiant deserter. “Ha, Brown!” cried Fagan, scowling savagely. With these words he sprang ferociously at the scout, grasping him strongly with his hairy, ape-like arms. Again, as on the bank, the two mortal adversaries writhed in mighty embrace. Again there was heavy breathing, muffled threats, and this time the added sound of sliding feet on the rough, hard surface. Then they suddenly pitched backward, struck heavily on the shoulder of the rock, and were shunted off into the raging rapids. The foaming, frothing water hid them for a moment. Except for the rush of the wild river, the nervous watchers could neither see nor hear anything. “They’re both done for!” exclaimed Ben in horror. “Don’t give up hope!” yelled Tom, leaping ahead now from stone to stone. Luckily, about fifteen feet below where the two fighters had shot down into the fierce current, there was a medium-sized log, deposited between two rocks by the spring freshet. Bill Brown, as he swept past, flung a long, sinewy arm over this log, and, with an almost superhuman effort, drew himself to safety. “Hooray!” shouted Tom. “Bully for you, Bill!” cried Ben joyfully. Then, as the big scout pulled his dripping form onto a rock and stood erect, Tom added: “Where’s Fagan?” “I think,” panted Bill, “that as we pitched into the rapids, his head hit a sunken rock which mine didn’t. He more’n likely kilt hisself.” “See there!” called out Ben, pointing excitedly down the rock-strewn chute. “It’s the body!” shouted Tom. “Cast up on the point of the island!” It was true. Fagan’s skull had been fractured by the impact of the blow, and he was quite dead. Without further words they took the body from the shallows and gave it Christian burial on high ground in the center of the island.