Very gently she tried to draw Wiggins out over the ice; but she could not. She could get no grip on it with her toes to drag from.
Wiggins’ little face, two feet from her own, was very white; and his teeth chattered.
She set her teeth and strove to find a hold for her slipping toes. She could not.
“C-c-can’t you p-p-pull m-m-me out?” chattered Wiggins.
“No, not yet,” she said hoarsely. “But it’s all right. The Terror will be here in a minute.”
She raised her head as high as she could and screamed again.
She listened with all her ears for an answer. A bird squeaked shrilly on the other side of the field; there was no other sound. Wiggins’ white face was now bluish round the mouth; and his eyes were full of fear. Again she kicked about for a grip, in vain.
“It’s d-d-dreadfully c-c-cold,” said Wiggins in a very faint voice; he began to sob; and his eyes looked very dully into hers.
She knew that it was dreadfully cold; her drenched arms and chest were dreadfully cold; and he was in that icy water to his shoulders.
“Try to stick it out! Don’t give in! It’s only a minute or two longer! The Terror must come!” she cried fiercely.