"Boy," cried Mr. Puddlebox fiercely, "will you watch me drown before your eyes?"
"Save yourself then. Save yourself."
"By God Almighty I will not. If you won't let me lift you you shall drown me."
Then determinedly he passed his hands beneath Mr. Wriford's arms; then resolutely shut his ears to dreadful cries of pain; then, then the dreadful business. "Boy, I've got to hurt you. I'll be gentle, my loony. Bear it, boy, oh, for Christ's sake bear it. Round my neck, boy. Hold tight. Bear it, boy; bear it."
He carried his arms round Mr. Wriford's back, downwards and beneath his thighs and locked them there. There were dreadful screams; but dreadfully the water swelled about them, and he held on; there were moans that rent him as they sounded; but he spoke: "Bear it, boy; bear it!" and with his burden waded forth.
He faced from the sea and towards the pedestal he had built.
"Loony!"
"Oh, for God's sake, set me down."
"Now I've to raise you."
He began to press upwards with his arms, raising his burden high on his chest.