Again, after shaking it, Tom tried to blow his whistle; but the feather had not been dislodged and the roar drowned out the muffled sound. "Mac!" he yelled. "Mac! Come in!" But the old fellow must not have heard. For Tom, hurrying along, his face crimson, saw the bird rise once more and flutter over the brink--and then, over the same brink, went Mac. At first, when the man reached the river, he gave a gasp of relief. Mac was swimming smoothly toward the bird which had floated into an eddy. Maybe he would recover it there, and would not get caught in the current. Only for a moment, though, did the hope last. The bird began to float more and more swiftly, and old Mac to swim more swiftly. Then the current caught them, swept them far out and, with ever-increasing speed, around the curve. Tom Jennings's heart must have improved during these years of comparative rest. Certainly he forgot that he had one now. By cutting across the bottoms he could reach the next inward bulge of the river, where it tumbled over the shoals. Even as he ran, in the hope that someone would hear, he shouted: "Help! Help here! Help!" But the roar of the shoals filled the air, and the lofty, richly foliaged trees rose above him as in scorn. Out of breath, he reached the rocks and looked out over the foaming and tumbling waters. Then he made Mac out, way out there. He was trying to crawl up on a rock, like a white seal, and in his mouth he held something. But only his paws caught hold. Then he slipped. Then he was lost from sight, and appeared again, and was lost again. And Tom knew--he was being beaten to death against those rocks. Below the shoals was a deep pool, with eddies; and here at last Tom, standing on the shore, saw him right himself and come swimming slowly, his head almost submerged, toward the shore. "Mac!" cried the man. "Here I am! Here I am, Mac!" He came on, and at last, Tom, lying flat on a rock and reaching down, caught first the back of the neck, then the paws, and pulled him out. As he did so old Mac gave a little cry and, once out, staggered, fell on his side. Then Tom saw that in his mouth he held the bird and that it was the last bird he would ever retrieve; for it was his own blood, not the bird's, that oozed from his mouth. He was sitting with the dog's head in his lap when the boy who worked around the railroad station at Breton Junction found him. "Got a telegram for you," he cried. "I went by the house an' there wasn't anybody at home. I heard you shoot just now and come to find you. Is the dog hurt much?" "Run to the house," cried Tom. "Tell one of them men to fetch a wagon quick. Tell him to put a mattress and spring on it. Quick, son--quick. Tell 'em they can drive across the fields. Bring 'em yourself."