He came up, but not at the hole. Instead his head bumped with considerable force against the under side of the icy covering of the stream.
“I am lost! I shall die for the want of a breath!” was the horrible thought that crossed his mind. And then he prayed that his life might be spared to him.
It was by the merest chance that his hand came in contact with part of the fishing line. The sharp hook pricked his thumb and he at once recognized what it was.
“The line,” he thought. “I must follow that back to the hole!” And as well as he could he felt along the line foot by foot, swimming and holding on at the same time.
His senses were fast leaving him and he was still some distance from the hole when he felt a jerk on the line. He gave a jerk in return and then half a dozen in quick succession. Then, as in a dream, he wound the line around his wrist.
Dave could never tell, afterwards, what happened directly after this. He felt himself drawn along, and felt the ice scratch his nose and his chin. Then a hand grabbed him by the hair and by the arm, and he was lifted up, dripping like a drowned rat, and too weak to open his eyes or make a move.
“Got him, thanks to Heaven!” burst from Sam Barringford’s lips. “An’ he aint dead nuther! But I’ll have to hustle back to camp or he’ll be frozen stiff!”
Leaving the lines and the catches where they lay, he took Dave by the heels and held him up head downward. A little water ran from the young soldier’s mouth and he gave a gasp and a shiver.
“Breathin’ yet,” muttered the old frontiersman. “Wot he wants now is a hot blanket an’ a hot drink, and he shall have it too, in jig time.”
With Dave slung over his shoulder, he set off on a run through the woods for the fort, a distance of nearly half a mile. The way was rough and the jouncing helped to keep up the youth’s feeble circulation.