It was the old Squire.
Our farmhouse, on the higher ground to the northwest, afforded a view of the lake; and the old gentleman had been keeping an eye on what went on down there, for he was quite far-sighted.

He saw Sylvester arrive with his team, and a few minutes later saw us start for the shore, lashing the horse.

He knew that something had gone wrong, and hitching up old Sol, he had driven down in haste.
"Hot water, quick!" he said.

"Make some hot coffee!" And seizing a towel, he gave Sylvester such a rubbing as it is safe to say he had never undergone before.
Gradually signs of life and color appeared.

The man began to speak, although rather thickly.
By this time the little camp was like an oven; but the old Squire kept up the friction.