“Here, you kids, don’t try to run around to the cove, you’ll never make it. Get more rope and pull that other plank loose—hurry up! The wind will help us.” Far across the water in the deepening, misty twilight, arose the voice, robbed of its purport by the adverse wind. And close at hand, among the frantic group, a clear cut, commanding voice. “Slip the rope under that next plank—that’s right—now tie it—quick—and lash it to this one—_so_! Now pull the whole business around.” Amid all this excitement the lone figure that stood apart beheld a striking spectacle. A form, black and ghostly, stood barely outlined at the end of the diving-board. “Don’t try that,” an authoritative voice called. But it was too late. The figure went splashing into the angry water. Little did Wilfred dream that this was the boy who had won the radio set in the Mary Temple swimming contest. The voice out on the lake, strained in its frantic last appeal, could be heard now. “_Heeeelp! Heeeelp!_” Removed from the throng, unseen, Wilfred Cowell kneeled, tore his shoe-laces out one after another and pushed off his shoes. He cast off his wet overcoat, his jacket, and wrenched away his scarf and collar. He did not know whether the pin that went with them was filled with new and lurid radiance, but may we not believe that it was? He stepped into the water and was soon beyond his depth. [Illustration: WILFRED TORE HIS SHOE-LACES OUT AND PUSHED OFF HIS SHOES.] Swiftly, steadily, evenly, he swam. With each long stroke he moved as if from the impetus of some enormous spiral spring. Some one in the crowd espied him and a hundred eyes were riveted upon that head that moved along, widening the distance between it and the shore with a rapidity that seemed miraculous. Who was it, they wondered? He seemed to glide rather than swim. Out, out, out, he moved toward the shadowy mass in the middle of the lake, rapidly, steadily, easily. Straight as an arrow he sped, and neither wind nor choppy water deterred nor swerved him. In the gathering shadows they could see one arm moving at intervals above the churning surface, appearing and disappearing with the cold precision of machinery. They watched this moving head, marveling, as the distance between it and the shore widened. Nothing like this had ever been seen at Temple Camp before. The boisterous waves of the great salt ocean had supported this invincible form and carried those tireless, agile limbs up upon their white crests. But nothing like this, nothing approaching to it, had ever been seen at Temple Camp before. This wind-tossed lake, uttering its threat of death to that bewildered, frantic throng, was like a plaything in his hands. No fitful gust seemed to affect his steady fleetness.