With the irresistible inclination of a drowning person, Clarice tried to throw her arms around Patricia, who knew that meant disaster for both of them.
“Stop that!” she snapped. “Swim!”
“I can’t,” moaned Clarice, frantic with fear.
“You’ve got to! We’ll both drown if you don’t. Put your hand on my shoulder and strike out as I do. If you try to grab me around the neck, I’ll leave you.”
Clarice pulled herself together and tried to obey. It seemed to Patricia as if they made no progress at all, so weighed down was she with Clarice’s weight. Just one more stroke, she said to herself, when it seemed as if she could go no farther. Now one more. That wasn’t so bad. Now another. Encouraging herself, straining each muscle to the utmost, she at last reached the bank where Rhoda stood with one arm wound around the tree trunk and the other extended to [help them scramble up the rough stones, slippery with moss.]
As soon as they were safe again, Clarice threw herself flat on the ground and burst into a violent fit of tears.
“Let her cry,” advised Rhoda, as Patricia bent over the sobbing girl. “She’ll get over the shock more quickly.”
“But she’ll take cold,” objected Patricia, throwing Anne’s cloak over the prone figure.
“And so will you,” added Rhoda, removing her own coat, preparatory to wrapping it around the shivering girl beside her.
“You keep that. I’ll get my own,” protested Patricia, running up the hill to where the wraps were piled on one of the tables. Pulling her long brown coat from under several others, she wrapped it around her and returned to Clarice and Rhoda.