THE LURE. 137 



for the willows, yet I must get to that pool. Selecting 

 a place where I think the willows will give way to my 

 weight, I essay the leap. My feet reach the opposite 

 bank, my body presses back the brush, but I feel a re- 

 bound that assures me of my fate. I clutch frantically 

 at the swaying bush ; it breaks in my hand, and I sit 

 down quite helplessly, muttering a prayer till the cold 

 water bids me shut my mouth. Emerging I hear a well 

 defined laugh, but not being in the mind to fear the 

 spirits that haunt these wilds, I make for the base of 

 that boulder and the coveted pool. A moment after I 

 discover a face bedecked with glasses upon the oppo- 

 site side of the brook, and recognize the smiling coun- 

 tenance of a genial member of the guild looking at me 

 through the willows. 



"Oh, is that you ?" 



To this lucid inquiry I reply in the affirmative. 

 . " Where's Ferguson ? " 



"At home, I suppose." 



" I thought I heard him fall in the creek." 



I told him I did not think Ferguson had a monopoly 

 of the bathing privileges of the Thompson and its 

 tributaries. 



" Well, I thought it was funny." 



" Thought what was funny ? " 



"Why, I heard the splash, and supposed it was Fer- 

 guson ; then I remembered Ferguson was a church 

 member in good standing." 



I took my revenge by competing with my brother for 



