“I thought I did,” answered King, “and shouted in the hope that it might be Alfred. He’s certainly out of the channel and is calling us. Halloo! halloo! we’re coming! Where are you?” he shouted. The boys rested a moment or two and listened for a reply. None came. “We don’t know which way to go,” said King. “Let’s go south on a venture.” “Call again,” said Stebbins, after they had been paddling for a few minutes. King did so, and in answer came a faint shout that both boys heard. “We’re right, keep on straight ahead,” said King, excitedly. “Where are you?” he called, but they did not receive any further answer. They paddled an eighth of a mile along this course, calling constantly without seeing anything of the person for whom they were looking. “Strange he doesn’t answer us,” remarked Stebbins, thoughtfully. “I’m afraid something’s happened to him.” King said nothing, but kept peering ahead into the gathering gloom. Darkness had fallen by this time and objects were hardly distinguishable. Rounding a bend in the stream, they suddenly saw a boat--the one in which Alfred had rowed away--drawn up on the bank. With a shout the boys pushed ahead with rapid strokes. “Alfred, where are you?” they called. As there was no response, they backed water, and bringing their bateau to a stop, looked with blanched faces into the empty boat. “Where can he be?” muttered Stebbins. “Look there! look there!” exclaimed King, rising in the skiff and nearly upsetting it. Stebbins followed the direction indicated, and saw what appeared to be a man’s head upright on the ground. “It’s Alfred, and he’s fast in the mud,” exclaimed Stebbins, grasping the situation. “He’s dead!” he groaned. Without further words, the boat was driven to the bank, and, stepping on the very hummocks that had supported Whyte, they reached his side. “Quick, Stebbins, get your paddle under his left arm; I will do the same on my side,” said King, and, working together, they succeeded in raising the apparently lifeless form from its position. In another moment they had placed the unfortunate youth in the boat beside them, and while one sent the skiff skimming towards home, the other rubbed and chafed the cold hands and feet. At last they were rewarded by seeing the eyes open and feeling the heart beat faintly. By the time the party reached the house, Whyte was himself again, but so weak and sick that he had to be carried from the landing and put to bed. A doctor was brought from Lincoln the next day and left some medicine and a few directions, but Alfred’s robust health and good constitution did more for him than all the pills and powders, and in a few days he had recovered from all traces of his terrible experience, except the memory of it. That will stay with him always. Audubon at Bird Rock