“What’s up?” queried Yorke, “he’s still on, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” growled Redmond miserably, “feels as if I’m snagged though.  He’s there right enough—­I can feel him jumping.  Damnation!  That’s the worst of stringing three hooks on your leader.  One of ’em’s snagged on something below, I guess.  Here! hold the rod a minute, Yorkey!”

The latter complied.  George unbuttoned and threw off his stable-jacket and began taking off his boots.  Yorke contemplated his comrade’s actions in speechless amazement.  “Why, what the devil?—­” he began—­

“I’m not going to lose that fish,” mumbled Redmond sulkily, as he threw off his clothes, “I’ll get him by gum! if I have to dive to the depths of Hell.”

“Say, now! don’t be a fool!” cried Yorke, “that water’s like ice, man!  You’ll get cramped, and then the two of us’ll drown.  We-ll, of all the idiots!—­”

George, by this time stripped to the buff, crept gingerly to the edge of the shelving bank.  In his right hand he grasped—­opened—­a small pen-knife.  “Aw, quit it!” he retorted rudely, “I’ll only be under a minute—­hold the line taut—­straight up and down, Yorkey, so’s I can see where to dive.”

He drew a deep breath, and then, with the poise of a practised swimmer, dived—­cutting the water with barely a splash.  For the space of a half-minute Yorke stared apprehensively at the swirling eddy, beneath which the other had vanished.  The line still remained taut.  Then he gave a gasp of relief, as Redmond’s head re-appeared, and that young gentleman swam to the side.  Extending a hand, the senior constable lugged his comrade to terra firma.

“That’s good!” he ejaculated fervently.  “D——­n the fish, anyway!  I guess you couldn’t make—­” He broke off abruptly, and remained staring at the dripping George with startled eyes.  The latter’s face registered unutterable horror, and he shook as with the ague.  Speech seemed beyond him.  He could only mouth and point back to the gloomy depths whence he had just emerged.

“Here!” cried Yorke, with an oath, “whatever is the matter, Reddy?  Man! you look as if you’d seen a ghost!”

Then his own face blanched, as the shivering George bubbled incoherently, “B-b-body! b-b-body!  My God, Yorkey! th-there’s a s-s-stiff d-down th-there!  Ugh!  I d-d-dived right onto it!”

For a brief space they remained staring at each other; then, a strange light of understanding broke over Yorke’s face, and he made a snatch at Redmond’s clothes.  “Come!” he jerked out briskly.  “Get ’em on quick, Red, else you’ll catch your death of cold—­never mind about drying yourself—­you can change when you get back.”

In shivering silence his comrade commenced to struggle into his underclothes and “fatigue-slacks.”  Yorke snapped the line and reeled in the slack.  “Stiff!” he kept ejaculating “stiff!  Yes, by gad! and I can make a pretty good guess who that stiff is! . . .  Burke’ll have all the evidence he wants—­now.  You beat it, Reddy, as soon as you’re fit and get him.  A run’ll warm you up.  The grappling-irons are back of the stable.  And say! tell him to bring a good long rope.  Lord, I hope Doctor Cox hasn’t left yet.  I’ll stay here, Reddy.  Hurry up!”