"Wade out and drown me," Mr. Wriford cried. "If you've any mercy, for God's sake drown me!"
"You're to obey me, boy. By God, you shall obey me, or I'll hurt you worse. Catch in my hair. Hold yourself up by my hair. High as you can. Up, up!"
He staggered upon the steps he had constructed; he gained the pedestal he had made. He thought the strain had become insupportable to him and that he must fall with it. "Now when I lift you, boy, keep yourself up. I'll bring you to my head and then set you back." He called upon himself supremely—raised and failed, raised and failed again. "Now, boy, now!"
He got Mr. Wriford to the ledge and thrust him back; himself he clung to the ledge and almost senseless swayed between his hands and feet.
Presently he looked up. "You're safe now, boy."
Mr. Wriford watched him with eyes that scarcely seemed to see: he scarcely seemed to be conscious.
"I had to speak sharply to you, boy."
Mr. Wriford advanced a hand to him, and he took it and held it. "There was nothing in what I said, boy."
He felt the fingers move in his that covered them. "I had to cry out," Mr. Wriford said weakly. "I couldn't help it."
"You were brave, boy, brave. You're safe now. The water will come to you. But you're safe."