At length, when our hero was all but exhausted, his feet struck a sandbar. At once he stood up, finding himself in water that reached to his waist. He caught up Buster and placed the weakened lad over his shoulder. In a dim, uncertain way he saw the shore loom up in front of him, and struck out in that direction.
It was a short but hard struggle. Twice Dave went down, once losing his hold on his chum. But he got up each time and went after Buster in a hurry. Then he made a final dash, came in 241 contact with some bushes, and hauled himself and his burden to temporary safety.
All was dark around the two boys, and the rain came down as pitilessly as ever. But for this they did not, just then, care. They had been close to death, and now they were safe, and that counted for everything.
Poor Buster had received a severe bump on the forehead and had a swelling there of considerable size. But the stunning effect was passing, and he was able to sit up and peer around him.
“Oh, what a crack I got, when I fell over!” he murmured, and then he added, gratefully: “It was a fine thing for you to jump in after me, Dave!”
“Well, I couldn’t stand there and see you drown, Buster,” answered our hero. “I had to do something.”
“Where are the others?”
“Up the stream—unless they went overboard, too.”
“Then I suppose we ought to walk that way.”
“We will—after we get our breath and you feel strong enough.”