CHAPTER XXII.
SCOUT TACTICS.
Just as he feared, when Rob managed to turn around and look back, he found that Tubby had gone and done it again. Whether he had missed his footing, or something had given way under his additional weight, was a question that could not be decided.
Before Merritt, close in his rear, could thrust out a helping hand, poor Tubby had fallen. The river was all of thirty feet below, and just there the water looked unusually unpleasant, because it had considerable foam on the surface, there being a shallow rift above the wider stretch.
By the merest accident in the world, Tubby's clutching hands had succeeded in fastening upon a loose steel stay that hung downward for ten feet. It must have given the fat boy a considerable wrench when he gripped this, but he had clung with the tenacity of despair.
When Rob turned around, the first thing he saw was Merritt kneeling there on the violently agitated girder over which they were making their crossing. He was staring downward, and, of course, Rob instantly focused his gaze in the same quarter.
He had expected to see Tubby splashing about like a porpoise in the stream far down below; but, instead, was astonished to discover him clinging desperately to that loose piece of steel wreckage.
Tubby had his face turned up toward his chums. There was not a particle of the rosy color to be seen that as a rule dyed his ample face; in fact, he was as white as a ghost. A beseeching look was in his eyes. Tubby knew that swinging there he was in a serious predicament, from which there would be only one escape if he were left to his own devices. That would mean he must release his frantic clutch on the swaying steel rope, and drop down into the river, a possibility he shuddered to contemplate.
"Hey! get me up out of this, fellows, can't you?" he whined, for, after his recent gymnastic efforts, he no longer had sufficient breath to shout.