Fessenden struck again, grappled with his antagonist, tottered, and plunged headforemost over the rail upon him. Both went down struggling wildly.
Betty snatched up the revolver, hardly knowing what she did, and stared down upon the boiling water.
Fessenden’s ghastly face, his groping fingers, his throat from which stood up the handle of the recking knife! The possibility of these things strained her mind to the breaking point. A horror of what the loss of him would mean to her drew a piercing cry:
“Bob White! Oh, Bob White!”
As if summoned by the sound, the two men rose into view—a yard apart. Betty fired on the instant. The shot went wild, but the negro, for the first time aware that firearms were at hand, dived deep. They saw him but once again, his head a black spot in the mist as he swam frenziedly for his drifting punt.
Her shaking hands helped Fessenden over the rail.
“You—that dreadful knife!—you aren’t hurt?”
“I knocked that out of his mouth the first thing. A couple of teeth along with it! But the fellow can swim like an alligator—he would have drowned me at his leisure, if you hadn’t fired. Thank you, child.” He patted her shoulder. “The row must have been rather rough on you.”
“It doesn’t matter—so long as you’re safe.”
“It’s all right. Well, that ‘swamper’ won’t bother us any more to-night, I’ll swear—so I’ll get out of these wet togs. Lucky they’re the flannels I borrowed from Danton.”