“Get an arm through that, Tom, and we’ll haul you up,” cried Mark. “Got it!”
There was a peculiar sound from Tom Fillot, and then a cheery “All right, sir,” as the line tightened. For his first utterance had been when his teeth were set fast in Dick Bannock’s trousers and leg, the second when he had quitted his hold.
With four in the cabin to haul, and Tom Fillot’s activity to help, it was not long before he was up and in at the window, getting the noose of the line off his arm.
“Hold on, Dick,” cried Mark, leaning out as far as he could.
“Can’t, sir,” came like a groan. “There’s so little to hold on by.”
“Here, quick! the line!” cried Mark, dragging it to him in loops, and, leaning out, he dropped it right on to the man, who made a desperate snatch at it, and twisted it round his wrist as the swift current seemed to snatch him from his hold.
The lad’s heart felt as if it had stopped in those brief moments when he gazed down at the dimly-seen figure in the agitated water.
“Right!” came the next moment; and then the word, “Haul.”
In another minute Dick lay panting on the cabin floor, breathless and trembling, so that for a time he could not speak.
“Better now?” said Mark, sympathetically.