“Now, Saxe, I have him, boy; but Heaven knows whether I can get him up, lying like this. No: it is impossible; I have no strength, and the wood handle is not like rope.”
“Oh!” groaned Saxe.
“If I could get to the rope, you might help me. It is impossible: I cannot lift him so.”
“Can you hold on as you are?” said Saxe huskily.
“Yes; but I could not lift—I have no power.”
“I must come too, and get hold of the handle. Will the head come off?”
“Hush! No. It is too new and strong. But you could not get hold to do any good. There—come and try.”
Saxe unhooked his axe from the ice, for an idea had struck him; and, lying down close to Dale, who uttered a sigh of satisfaction as he grasped the boy’s idea, he lowered down his axe, and hooked the rope with it just beneath Dale’s.
“Good,” whispered the latter,—“good. Ready?”
“Yes.”