When the dripping logs were long and heavy, it was the custom to fasten
them with the rope close to a stake in the bank, and leave them
floating. At low water they were left high and dry on the sand.

No other drift-wood gatherers meddled with such logs. They were
considered as much private property as if already burning on the hearth.

"I'm going up the hill to feed the cow, Connor," said his father, after
a great deal of wood of every size and shape had been landed. "Mind what
you are about, and take care of Larry's gim of a boat. It was mighty
neighborly to lind it for the whole day. See now, how much drift you can
pick up by yourself."

Connor felt the responsibility, and worked diligently. He had twice
taken a load to shore, and was quite far again in the stream, when he
saw a strange sight. It was not Moses in the bulrushes, to be sure--but
a child in a wicker wagon, floating down the current amid a lot of
sticks and branches. The hoarse whistle of a steamboat near meant
danger; and to the eye of Connor the baby-craft seemed but a little
above the water, and to be slowly sinking.

Connor's shout rang back from the Kentucky hills as if it came from the
throat of an engine.

No one answered.

There were great logs between his skiff and the child--logs and child
were all moving together. Should he abandon Larry's precious boat?

Connor could not consider this. He plunged into the water and swam round