“Hold hard!” yelled Joe. “Anywhere.—Got him, boys—urrrrr!—”
It was as if some savage beast had suddenly seized its prey. Then there was a loud panting and more crackling as of branches giving way, and directly after, in answer to a volley of inquiries, Joe Cross panted out—
“Yes, I’ve got him, my lads, and he’s got his teeth into me; but I don’t know how long we can hold on.”
“You must hold on, Joe!” shouted a voice.
“Stick to him, messmate! I’m a-trying to get to you.”
There was more crackling in the darkness, and a peculiar subdued sound as of men panting after running hard; but it was only the hard breathing of excitement.
“Have you got him still, Joe?” came in gasps.
“Yes, my lad, but he’s awful still and I don’t know that he aren’t drowned.—No, he aren’t, for he’s got his teeth into my shoulder, and he’s gripping hard. But the water keeps washing right up into my ear.”
“Hoist him up a little higher,” panted the other speaker.
“How can I? I’ve got my arm round him, but if I stir it means let go. What are you doing, mate?”