ial victory over its
foe, for the squire was nearly sobered by his bath.

"This is bad--very bad!" said my passenger, when he had shaken some of
the water from his garments.

"I know it is, Squire Fishley; but we have got over the worst of it," I
replied.

"I'm afraid not, boy. I shall never get over the disgrace of it," he
added, with a shudder--partly from cold, I judged, and partly from a
dread of consequences.

"Nobody will know anything about it if you don't tell of it. When you
fell in, I heard a dozen people ask who you were, and nobody could
tell."

"Don't let any one see me, boy," pleaded he, as we heard the voices of
people moving down the bank of the river in search of the unfortunate.

I knew just where we were, and I conducted him to an old lumber shed,
some distance from the bank of the river, where I left him to go for the
horse and wagon. I avoided the people who were searching for the
unfortunate, and found Darky just where I had hitched him, at the
steamboat landing. I was not very uncomfortable, for I had not been all
over into the water. I drove down to the lumber shed, took the squire
in, and headed towards home. The senator was shivering with cold,
though fortunately it was a very warm day for the season, and he did not
absolutely suffer.

It had been cloudy and threatening rain all the afternoon and evening,
and before we reached the main road it began to pour in torrents. I had
an oil-cloth, which I put over the trunk and the mail. Under ordinary
circumstances, a seven-mile ride in such a heavy rain would have been a
great misfortune; but, as both of us had been in the river, it did not
make much difference to us. I had no umbrella; and it would have done no
good if I had, the wind was so fresh, and the storm so driving. If we
had not been wet in the beginning, we should have been soaked to the
skin long before we reached Torrentville.

The squire suffered so much from cold that I advised him to get out,
take hold of the back of the wagon, and walk or run a mile or so to warm
up his blood. He took my advice, and improved his condition very much.
But the cold was by no means the greatest of his troubles. Remorse, or,
more likely, the fear of discovery, disturbed him more.

"Boy, what is your name?" asked he, after he had walked his mile, and
was able to speak without shivering.

"John Buckland Bradford, sir; but the folks all call me Buck."

"You seem to be a very smart boy, Buck, an