Kit spread his legs, took a smashing blow on his ribs, and grimly felt for a good hold. When a Cumberland wrestler gets a good hold the struggle is over. Gasping and straining, he leaned forward and locked his arms round the other’s back. Then he stiffened his body, set his mouth, and lifted.
Railton’s feet left the boards and he swayed in Kit’s tense arms. His body bent and his legs went up. Kit, battered and exhausted, let go and fell against the forge. Somebody shouted, men ran across the platform, and Kit saw Railton was not about. The fellow was in the river. Kit pushed back the others and jumped.
The plunge braced him, and when he came up his dizziness was gone. Not far off he saw Railton’s head. The fellow tossed about in the broken water behind the columns, and when Kit tried to reach the spot an eddy swung him round. Railton vanished, but a few moments afterwards Kit’s leg was seized and he was strongly pulled down. He got loose and reached the surface. Railton came up behind him, pushed Kit’s head under, and let him go.
Kit, fighting for breath, went down-stream. He thought he heard the men on the stage laugh, and he began to see the joke. He had gone to help a first-class swimmer. Railton, a yard or two off, turned and gave him a humorous grin.
“You have surely got some gall! Steer for the bank. I’ll see you through.”
They were carried down-stream, and when they struggled in the eddies along the steep bank Railton, a yard or two in front, seized a willow branch and stretched out his hand.
“Hang on, sonny! I’ll boost you up.”
“If you leave me alone, I can get up,” Kit gasped.
“Get a holt,” said Railton. “You’re going to be pulled up.”
Kit thought he saw a light. The men on the bridge were interested, and Railton played for their applause.