This brought Buster over clear of the break. The next thing was to get him out.
“Put me closer!” gasped Lanky as he stretched his arms again to get Buster—just as poor Buster started to go down again.
A hurried grab, a quick twining of an arm under one of Buster’s shoulders, and Lanky was holding him, head clear of the water. Buster seemed unable to help himself.
Lanky’s other arm went under the other shoulder of the boy, he gasped back to Frank to pull, and Frank, putting his entire strength behind the effort, started backward, digging his skates into the ice to hold himself steady. Step by step, inch by inch, digging at each step, Frank felt the weight coming out of the water, until, when it seemed the effort had to stop, he felt a sudden release and knew that Buster was free.
Quickly he pulled the two sliding boys, with their dead weight, for several yards, then dropped Paul’s feet. Then all three of the boys went to work on Buster.
He gasped several times, spit water out, but he could not move either arms or legs! In going into the water and in making stroking efforts to get to the hole, he had twisted the four lines around himself in such manner that his arms and legs were almost completely pinioned.
Five minutes later they had Buster to his feet, shivering from the thorough wetting with freezing water, but free of all entangling alliances, as Lanky afterward called the lines.
Twenty minutes later they went into the commodious camp house and hailed with glee the freely burning log fire which welcomed them back.
“Did you get a picture of the fish you caught?” Buster laughingly inquired of Paul when he had gotten into a blanket and had hung his wet clothes before the great fire to be dried. In the meantime Frank was making a pot of hot coffee for all.
“Don’t want pictures of catching suckers,” dryly replied the young snapshot enthusiast.