Literally, his presence of mind had invented what was really a life chain, a human rope.
On came the canoe, Elaine in it as white as death, crying out and trying to stop or guide it as, nearer and nearer through the smooth-worn walls of the chasm, it whirled to the falls.
With a grip of steel, the naturalist held to the tree which swayed and bent, while also he held me, as if in a vise, head down.
On came Elaine—directly at us.
She stood up and balanced herself, a dangerous feat in a canoe at any time, but doubly so in those dark, swirling, treacherous waters.
"Steady!" I encouraged. "Grab my arms!"
As the canoe reached us, she gave a little jump and seized my forearms.
Her hands slipped, but I grasped her own arms, and we held each other.
The momentum of her body was great. For an instant I thought we were all going over. But the naturalist held his grip and slowly began to pull himself and us up the slippery rock.
A second later the canoe crashed over the falls in a cloud of spray and pounding water.
As we reached the bank above the rock, I almost lifted Elaine and set her down, trembling and gasping for breath. Before either of us knew it the queer old fellow had plunged into the bushes and was gone without another word.