“Oh! it’s you, is it?” said Fritz Rolf, who, as the stronger and less taken by surprise, was the first to recover himself; “and just what I might have expected! Running away like a coward, and leaving your father and sister in danger. A pretty fellow you are!” “I don’t know what you mean by danger,” replied Frank impatiently; “but I’ve no time to quarrel just now.” “Some folks have time to quarrel with you, though,” said Fritz, restraining him by a grasp of the arm as he would have sped onwards. “Do you know that the mob are out to-night, and mean mischief to you and your family? I am on my way to warn the house now.” Frank hesitated. “I must go on,” he said, “it is a matter almost of life and death to send this telegram. Keep on like a good fellow, and give them warning to clear out by the back way, and I’ll come back as soon as I can.” “It’s almost too late now,” said Fritz, as the tramp of many feet was heard approaching; “by George, I believe they’ve divided, so as to take the house in front and rear. And they won’t have much mercy on you, if they know who you are,” he added, glancing at the figure before him. Frank Randolph was physically brave; but a tremor shook him for just a moment, as he glanced right and left for some way of escape. To retreat was, of course, still possible, but Frank had no idea of running away. The task he had undertaken should be performed, and the way to its performance lay before him. The street on which he stood sloped down to the river; there were no cross-streets or blind alleys through which he could make his way. “‘Twice thirty thousand foes before, No telegraph office behind,’” he said coolly. “The only thing I see is to swim for it.” Fritz grinned in unwilling admiration. “It’s your only chance if the current don’t get away with you,” he said. “But, I say, you know who I am, and that any other man but me would hold your head under water, till the devil was washed out of you?” “Any other man, and you included, might have some trouble about that,” replied Frank, as he took off his coat, kicked off his shoes, and fastened the precious telegram inside his hat. “However, you ought not to bear malice for an affair in which I had decidedly the worst of it,” he added. “Come, you’re a fine fellow, and I am heartily sorry I ever interfered with you. Will you shake hands on it?” It must be confessed that Fritz hesitated before he could clasp the hand held out to him. “It wasn’t _me_ that you tried to ruin,” he said sullenly. “After all, it would be a good deed to drown you.” “It’s a better deed to make me ashamed of myself,” said Frank, shaking heartily the reluctant hand, “and perhaps I may drown myself and no thanks to you. Good-by.” “You ain’t a coward, at all events,” said Fritz, as the white shoulders disappeared beneath the dark stream, “but you’ve got to be a regular old swimmer from Swimtown to get through to-night.”