How Larry Botter, a.k.a. the American Buffalo, managed to lure the girls to the river to look at the first ice remained his personal secret. Perhaps the stolen candies from old Mr. Higgins the apothecary, procured on credit for lack of ready cash, played their part. Or perhaps it was yet another grand lie — like the claim that the ice on the Mississippi was "whiter than cornmeal and stronger than an army sergeant's boot sole."
But to be honest, with Larry, any undertaking became epic, and any description a masterpiece of invention. He could declare with utter conviction that he'd seen a water rat grow wings, or that mushrooms sprouted from old miller Gray's ears. So it was no surprise that in his telling, the thin, gray river ice transformed into a crystal parquet floor, worthy of a governor's ball.
The girls, chattering like spring starlings, came to the bank. The boys were already there — the noise, din, shrieks, and stomping were so loud, it was as if a traveling circus were being unloaded onto the ice. If you could gather that racket and turn it into energy, it would spin a mill wheel without any water, even if Johnny Tucker built a dam and finally blocked the river.
Larry himself, as always, was at that moment occupied with a thousand things at once. The thousand-and-first was that, dashing across the ice after someone, he stepped into a hole. Water, cold as death, instantly filled his boot. Without a second thought, he dashed to his "wigwam" — the wretched lean-to by the school shed that he'd built with Clyde over the summer to avoid sleeping in the stuffy school dormitory. There he quickly pulled off the soaked footwear and tugged on dry, though borrowed, ones — Clyde's spare shoes, who, living far away, kept spare clothes at the school.
Returning to the ice, he was immediately met with jeers.
"Look, the Buffalo's changed his hide!" someone yelled. "Other beasts shed in spring, but he — in winter!"
"Exactly!" Larry retorted, brushing non-existent dust from his sleeve. "Clothes don't make the man. What makes a man is courage and a sharp mind. What spoils him is a long tongue and crooked legs!"
Then, to prove his point, he nimbly tripped Silas Simmer. The boy flopped onto the ice nose-first. Larry bent over him with feigned concern:
"Well, what'd you find down there, Simmer? A chest of pieces of eight?"
Wild laughter rolled across the river, echoing timidly from the far bank. But the moment's climax came when red-haired Clint, flushed with exertion, rolled out onto the ice on real skates. His legs were thin as reeds, and he skated as if fleeing an enraged swarm of bees on stilts.
Seeing this, Larry nearly howled with envy. He shadowed Clint, promising him in exchange for a skate-ride the most valuable items from his "arsenal": the flattened barrel of an old rifle and a table knife he grandly called a "cavalry saber."
"Come on, Clint, let me have a go! Just once! Even just to that ice floe and back!"
"Skates, Botter, are not for rent," the redhead replied importantly, turning (gracefully, at least in his own mind). "This isn't a horse by the hour. You either get them or you don't."
And he sped away, drawing other hopefuls who hadn't lost hope of trying his marvelous skates. The girls, meanwhile, huddled together a little ways off, running on the ice in their worn dresses and shrieking as if being tickled with goose feathers.
Larry, left with nothing to do, suddenly remembered his original, brilliant plan. It was simple as a calf's moo: lure the girls to the reed beds, where the ice was still thin as a bride's veil, and then watch from a safe distance as one of them — say, Mary — fell through the ice with a shriek. But while he'd been running after skates, the plan had slipped his mind completely.
He approached the huddle of girls with the air of an expert.
"And what are you doing here, sillies, wasting your little boots? Come to the reeds! The ice there is a pure mirror. White as a sugar loaf."
"And why aren't you going there yourself?" one of the girls muttered suspiciously.
"Me? I just came from there! Just wanted to show you the way."
"You're lying!" the girls chorused. "When you called us here yourself, you said the ice was white as sugar, and it's all gray, like the sexton's britches. Larry, even steam comes from your mouth when you lie!"
"But isn't it white?" he asked with feigned surprise, edging closer. "Come on, have a better look…"
"You look! Where's it white here?"
"Well, if it's not white, it's not white," he conceded. "But right by those reeds, there are crayfish — each bigger than the last! One, I swear, was as big as a kitchen pot!"
"You saw them yourself?"
"Sure did! And then a pike swam up — no, a catfish! Huge, with eyes like saucers. Snatched the crayfish in its mouth — just the claws flashed. So much scary, interesting stuff there!"
"And they say the raft sank there? Right by the reeds?"
"Where else! Of course it's lying on the bottom there, I saw it through the ice myself! There are pike, catfish, and… maybe a mermaid with a turtle's shell!"
The girls froze, impressed. One, shivering, asked:
"You're not lying? You really saw it?"
"May I be thrice a fool if I'm lying! This isn't baking cornbread in the kitchen. I saw it with my own eyes! And I even…" he made a dramatic pause, "saw a snake."
"A snake?!"
"Yep. All black, with white rings on its neck, like washed laundry."
"Then we're definitely not going there! It's scary."
"Don't be afraid!" Larry hurried to correct his blunder. "Back on our farm, a hired hand saw one just like it. He was fishing on the river, and it jumped out of the water right onto his neck! He almost died. But his mama knew a secret incantation from when she was little and taught it to him. He just shouted…"
The girls held their breath.
"Well? Well? What did he shout?"
Larry struck the pose of an oracle, raised a finger to the sky, and chanted in a whisper:
Oh, snake, slither away fast,
Don't crush my neck, you villainous blast.
Crawl to the swamp or behind the shed,
Just get away from me, you creature dread!
"And then?" the littlest girl piped up.
"And then — the snake twisted, twisted — and whoosh! — vanished. Only waves were left on the river."
The girls, glancing at each other, began eagerly repeating the incantation, trying to memorize it. Larry just wiggled his eyebrows and nodded toward the sinister reeds.
"Well then, aren't you scared now? Let's go see the raft!"
"Now we're even more scared!" they chorused. "We're not going! Better to stay here."
Then a firm voice rang out:
"Well, I'll go."
Everyone turned. It was Mary. She took a step on the ice toward the thicket of reeds.
"Mary, don't go!" they shouted after her, but she was already calling to the others:
"Larry! If you lied — we'll show you! Come on, show us where the raft is!"
Larry shuffled in place.
"Just a sec… I'll be right there!" he mumbled, backing away.
And then he froze. His chest went cold and tight, like someone who'd suddenly realized his joke had gone too far. The ice by the reeds wasn't just thin. It was treacherous and unreliable, like a card sharp's promise. And Mary was walking straight toward it.
Larry stood as if rooted, watching Mary carefully step closer and closer to the dangerous spot. Something ached deep inside — whether conscience or a premonition of disaster. He jerked forward to warn the girl, to say it was just a joke, but his legs wouldn't obey. She won't hear me now anyway… too late, flashed through his mind. The ice under Mary's feet gave quiet creaks, and each sound echoed in his ears like the thunder of an approaching catastrophe.
Meanwhile, back in the classroom by the window, Archie and Tommy Savage were talking about their own matters. The setting sun cast the ice with final, liquid gleams, like spilled mercury. Their conversation, which had begun with Johnny's fate, had inexorably turned to what troubled Archie most.
"Tell me straight, Tommy," Archie asked, not taking his eyes off the river. "Did you sink the raft?"
Tommy was silent. His silence was thick and heavy as tar. Only the redness slowly creeping from his neck to his ears spoke more eloquently than any words. When he finally forced out a short "Yes," Archie felt neither anger nor even surprise. Only a strange, icy emptiness, as if part of his world had suddenly collapsed, like the ice under which Mary was about to fall.
"And if Johnny gets chased out because of this?" Archie asked quietly.
Tommy gave no answer. He stared out the window, and his gaze suddenly grew sharp, tense. Archie looked in the same direction — and the blood drained from his face.
"She's going to fall through!" he cried and, beside himself, bolted from the classroom.
He tore down the corridor, flinging doors open with such a crash that books flew off shelves. Burst into the yard where the first snow crunched underfoot, his breath coming in ragged gasps of steam. Every step brought him closer to that spot on the river where his worst fears were already coming true.
Mary was already at the very edge of the danger zone. The ice there wasn't white or gray — it was dark, ominous, and through it you could glimpse black, bottomless water.
"Mary! Stop! Don't go there!" Archie shouted at a full run, but it was too late.
A short, dry crack sounded, like the snap of a breaking bone. The ice under Mary gave way, and with a quiet splash she disappeared into the black water.
A wild scream pierced the frosty air. The boys froze, the girls shrieked. Archie, without thinking, ran across the ice to the place where Mary had just been. He saw her, desperately clutching at the slippery edge, trying to pull herself out, but the ice crumbled under her hands, and she fell back into the water again and again.
"My God, they're both going under now!" someone wailed from the shore.
Archie reached the hole and stretched his hand out to Mary. The ice beneath him groaned pitifully — and also gave way. Icy water, searing with cold, instantly engulfed him head to toe. Now two children thrashed on the river's surface.
Panic, beyond imagining, broke out on the bank. Kids ran, screamed, shoved. Geese on the neighboring farm set up an alarmed honking, echoing the general chaos.
At that moment, the school door flew open as if lightning-struck, and Mr. Burns shot out onto the porch. He was barefoot, in house slippers, his face that of a man who'd seen a ghost. Rushing toward the river, he snatched up a long, tarred board from the school lean-to in one hand, while the other automatically made the sign of the cross. Behind him, breathless, with his tie undone, ran Mr. Whitaker — his short legs, accustomed to stately strolls down the school corridor, desperately slid on the icy yard.
But they weren't the only ones rushing to the children's aid. From the direction of the main road, cutting straight across the frozen field, came Johnny Tucker, stumbling and falling. His hat was gone, his powerful chest heaved under his unbuttoned jacket, and in his hand he clutched a tightly coiled rope. He cursed, panted, fell, got up, and ran again with the desperate speed of which he was capable.
While Mr. Burns cautiously picked his way to the ice's edge with the board, Johnny was already uncoiling the rope.
"Hang on, lad! Catch the end!" he roared and hurled the coil with the accuracy of an old salt.
The rope landed beside Archie. With his last strength, he grabbed it. And at that same moment, who should latch on behind him to help but… who else? Larry, of course! He seized the rope and, slipping and waving his arms, pulled with all his might, never ceasing to command:
"Pull, Uncle Johnny, pull! Yank 'em out like turnips! Pull the right sleeve, it's drier! No, the left! Oh, just pull!"
On the end of the straining rope dangled two soaked, terrified children. Thanks to the efforts of the three — Johnny and Larry on one side, Mr. Burns on the other, who slid the board under them — Archie and Mary were finally hauled onto solid ice. They lay there, shivering and blue, looking more like strange fish flung up by the river than like people.
Silence fell on the bank, broken only by heavy breathing and stifled sobs.
And then the reckoning began. Mr. Burns, muttering something incoherent, dragged Archie toward the school, peeling off his own gray, threadbare robe on the way and wrapping the boy in it. Following them, unsteadily, came Mary, bundled in Mr. Whitaker's own cloak.
Half an hour later, when both of them, changed and warmed with tea, stood before the class, the funereal silence gave way to laughter.
Archie was decked out in Mr. Whitaker's black frock coat. It hung on him like on a hanger, the sleeves drooping past his fingertips, the tails dragging on the floor. From the giant, upturned collar peered only a pale, frightened face. Mary was drowning in an old dress of Mrs. Whitaker's. The skirt formed a puddle of fabric around her, the sleeves were rolled into thick cuffs, and a makeshift belt of handy rope dangled at her waist.
But Mr. Whitaker wasn't laughing at all. Barely glancing at the spectacle, he pronounced drily:
"To the corner. Both of you."
Mr. Burns tried to object, but the principal was adamant:
"So it's a lesson to all. Or they'll go again, and we'll have to fish them out of the river once more."
And so they stood in the corner: Archie looking like a scarecrow in a jacket far too big for him, and Mary like a doll dressed in grandma's cast-offs. The whole class roared with laughter. Someone dropped a slate pencil, someone else actually climbed on a desk to get a better view.
But no one except Mr. Burns noticed the tears rolling down Archie's cheeks from under the huge collar — swift, hot, and bitter from humiliation and fear. Mary stood with lips pressed tight, looking at the floor, her cheeks burning with shame.
The noise died down only when a wagon pulled up to the school porch. A gray horse snorted, thick steam puffing from its nostrils. On the driver's seat sat Matt from Fox Creek Farm, wrapped in a battered sheepskin coat.
"Come for the master's children," he said, peering in the door. "Need to take the wet clothes, too. Told me to come right away."
The class fell quiet. All the comicality of the situation suddenly evaporated, giving way to something serious and adult.
It turned out Johnny, not wasting any time, had run to Fox Creek Farm and, breathless, reported: "Children in the water. Send a wagon quick, or they'll catch their death." He hadn't blamed anyone or explained who was at fault — he simply did what needed doing.
Matt, settling the soaked and subdued children into the wagon, patted Mary's wet head.
"There now, little one, we're going home. It's warm and dry there."
He carefully wrapped Archie in his own warm sheepskin coat up to his eyes and said quietly, so others wouldn't hear:
"Good lad, master, not losing your nerve and coming to help. Only next time, think with your head, not your heels. You don't have to jump in after everyone who takes a plunge."
The wagon set off, its runners creaking along the packed road. It carried away two soaked, frozen children, leaving behind on the schoolyard only a heavy, bewildered silence in which laughter now seemed sacrilege.