"Why don't you fire that kid ashore?" demanded Welton. "Do you want to
drown him? He's so cold now he don't know where's his feet?"

Roaring Dick glanced carelessly at the boy. The latter had succeeded in
gaining the shallows, where he was trying to roll over a stranded log.
His hands were purple and swollen; his face puffed and blue; violent
shivers shook him from head to foot; his teeth actually chattered when,
for a moment, he relaxed his evident intention to stick it through
without making a sign. All his movements were slow and awkward, and his
dripping clothes clung tight to his body.

"Oh, him!" said Roaring Dick in reply. "I didn't pay no more attention
to him than to one of these yere hell divers. He ain't no _good_, so I
clean overlooked him. Here, you!" he cried suddenly.

The boy looked up, Bob saw him start convulsively, and knew that he had
met the impact of that peculiar dynamic energy in Roaring Dick's nervous
face. He clambered laboriously from the shallows, the water draining
from the bottom of his "stagged" trousers.

"Get to camp," snapped Dick. "You're laid off."

"Why did you ever take such a man on in the first place?" asked Welton.

"He was here when I come," replied Roaring Dick, indifferently, "and,
anyway, he's bound he's goin to be a river-hog. You couldn't keep him
out with a fly-screen."

"How're things going?" inquired Welton.