“Isn’t that what the boys denominate a spring-board?” asked the doctor. “That’s it, sir. I told Pat Murphy to cut it off this very morning. They walk out to the end of that, sir, and tilter up and down, and then jump into the water.” “Is there no danger of its breaking and drowning them?” asked the doctor. “Drown ’em! Drown so many pickerel,” exclaimed the miller. “No, sir. Hold up a ton, sir. Why, it’s clear white pine. Stole it from me, most likely. Walk out on it. Try it yourself, Doctor.” “I? Oh, no, indeed,” responded the doctor. “That would never do. I weigh very little, to be sure, but I could not think of such a thing.” As the learned gentleman drew his thin and wizened form back to its most dignified uprightness, however, a riotous yell and splash from Zeb and his friends stirred the blood of the miller to the very bounds of endurance. “Come on, boys,” shouted Zeb; “let’s have a jump from the board, and show ’em what we can do.” The face of the miller grew red, and he actually drew a long breath as he strode forward. He knew too well the strength of a two-inch pine plank to have any misgivings, and, just as a wild shout rang out from the window of the grist-mill, and Pat Murphy sprang insanely through it to the great heap of sour “bran” beneath, Gershom Todderley gave the treacherous wood the full benefit of his overfed weight. Even then the tough pine held its own for a step or two. “You young rascals.” Crack! A wild spreading out of fat arms, a wheezy shriek of fear, a tremendous splash in the calm, deep water, and Gershom Todderley had received the full benefit of Pat Murphy’s trap. “The boat, boys!” shouted Zeb. “Quick, now, or the old porpoise will drown himself. Pity we didn’t bring a harpoon along.” Four naked boys were in the boat in less than no time, and while the Rev. Solomon Dryer stood on the flume, helplessly opening and shutting his mouth, without uttering a sound, Zeb and his heroes pulled vigorously to the rescue. They would have been there in plenty of time, too, but Pat Murphy, forgetting, in his conscience-stricken excitement, that he could not swim a stroke, had made no pause at the brink, but had gone in, heels over head, to fish for his employer. There was double work cut out for Zeb and his friends, and the willows on the opposite shore were alive with a chorus which never came from the throats of blackbirds. The miller may have been a selfish man, but he was neither a coward nor a fool, and when, on coming to the surface for the second time, he found an oar-blade poked into his well-covered ribs, he had quite sense enough to cling to it and be pulled to the side of the boat. “That’ll do,” said Zeb. “You’ll tip us over if you try to climb in. You’re safe enough, now, and we’ll pull you ashore. I’m going for poor Pat Murphy.” Pat was by no means so easy to manage, but in a couple of minutes more the boys had him upon the other side of the boat, making a very good counterpoise for the miller.