Веснянки

           Heshiftedrestlessly;themovementsentthesnake-feedersskimming.Thehumoflifeswelledandroaredinhisstrainedears.Smallturtles,thathadclimbedonalogtosun,splashedclumsilyintothewater.Somewhereinthetimberofthebridgeabloodthirstylittlefrogcriedsharply.“KEEL’IM!KEEL’IM!”

           Frecklesmuttered:“It’sworsethanthatBlackJacksworetodotome,littlefellow.”

           Amuskratwaddleddownthebankandswamfortheswamp,itspointednoserifflingthewaterintoashiningtrailinitswake.

           Then,belowtheturtle-log,adrippingsilver-grayhead,withshiningeyes,wascautiouslylifted,andFreckles’handslidtohisrevolver.Higherandhighercamethehead,along,heavy,furcoatedbodyarose,nowhalf,nowthree-fourthsfromthewater.Freckleslookedathisshakinghandanddoubted,buthegatheredhisforces,theshotrang,andtheotterlayquiet.Hehurrieddownandtriedtoliftit.Hescarcelycouldmusterstrengthtocarryittothebridge.TheconsciousnessthathereallycouldgonofartherwithitmadeFrecklesrealizethefactthathewasclosethelimitofhumanendurance.Hecouldbearitlittle,ifany,longer.EveryhourthedearfaceoftheAngelwaveredbeforehim,andbehindittheawfuldistortedimageofBlackJack,ashehadsworntothepunishmenthewouldmeteouttoher.HemusteitherseeMcLean,orelsemakeatriptotownandfindherfather.Whichshouldhedo?Hewasalmostastranger,sotheAngel’sfathermightnotbeimpressedwithwhathesaidashewouldifMcLeanwenttohim.