But the boys couldn’t even jar the rock. It had slipped from the bank and rolled a little, and now it was settling slowly into the ooze, bearing Hebe’s legs down under it.
The situation was serious in the extreme. Slowly, as Hebe settled beneath the rock, the water was creeping up about his lips and nose. Although he held his head back the water would, in time, rise above his mouth. And the rise was as steady as a tide.
Again and again Chet Belding and his comrades tried to push the huge rock over. But, as at first, they could not even budge it. Mike began to cry again. Hebe said, gruffly:
“I reckon I gotter croak, eh? This ain’t no nice way to die, you bet!”
“Die—nothing!” cried Laura.
She ran back to the car and tore the piece of rubber pipe away from the bulb of the horn. Handing this to Hebe, she showed him how he could lie back in a more comfortable position, if he wished, and breathe through the tube. She produced some cotton, too, so that he could stop his ears and nostrils.
“Now, you keep up your courage,” Mother Wit told him. “We’ll soon find a way of getting you out of this. You’re not dead yet.”
Hebe said nothing, but he watched her, when his eyes were above water, with a grateful air.
“But I tell you, Laura, we can’t begin to start this stone even,” growled Chet, in her ear. “You will have to think of something better than this.”
“So I will,” cried Laura. “I’ll think of a rope.”