of grief could have been. Jerry and Dave and Frank, feeling in some
queer way guilty of their friend's death, could not meet his eyes as
he asked dully how it had happened.

The dreary day dragged to a weary close, and the sun sank behind
heavy clouds black with more than one rumbling promise of storm. The
boys toiled doggedly on, weak from hunger, for their lunches had
gone over with the boat, and, anyway, they would not have had the
heart to swallow a bite. Lanky, good-natured Tod Fulton--drowned! It
simply couldn't be. But the fast darkening water, looking cruel now,
and menacing, where it had laughed and rippled only that morning,
gave the lie to their hopes. Hopes? The last one had gone when Mr.
Aikens had said:

"Never heard of anybody's being brought to after more than two hours
under water. Only thing we can hope for is to find the body. I'm
going to telephone to town and tell 'em to send out some dynamite."

It was already dusk when this decision was made, and it was after
nine o'clock before an automobile brought a supply of dynamite
sticks and detonating caps. In the meanwhile a powerful electric
searchlight had been brought over from the interurban tracks a scant
mile west of the river line, and the millwheel had been shafted to
the big dynamo and was generating current to flash dazzling rays of
light across the water.

Mayor Humphreys, from Watertown, and Mr. Aikens were chosen to set
off the dynamite, while watchers lined the shores, sharp-eyed in the
hope of catching sight of the body when it should come to the
muddied surface of Plum Run after the dynamite had done its work.