It was all nearly momentary, and the reaction came as the boy felt his toes glide into one of the great notches he had cut in the ice.
“Steady, steady,” panted Dale. “Oh, if I only had some purchase! Pull, and never mind the skin; get the rope over the edge. Hurrah!”
The rope was over the edge, and just between them, and but for the fact that Dale was able to get the head of his axe beneath his chest, and press it down on the ice, it would have glided back once more.
“Now, Saxe,” he cried, “I can hold him like this for a few moments: the edge helps. Step back and take a grip of the axe handle.”
Saxe obeyed, drawing the handle tight, and getting his boot toes in another of the notches.
“Now,” cried Dale, “hold on with all your might while I shuffle back.”
“Are you going to leave go?” growled Saxe.
“No.”
That negative came like the roar of a wild beast.
“Got him tight,” cried Saxe; and he set his teeth and shut his eyes, while, holding on with one hand, Dale shuffled himself back as far as he could—that is, to the full extent of his arms and the foot of rope he had dragged over the edge of the ice.