“I’ll go first, and if I can make it, I’ll be on the rock to help you when you come.”
“But if you miss?” quavered Jack.
“But I won’t miss,” said Tom pluckily, although he felt by no means certain in his own mind. “I feel as confident as I did that day at Audubon when I got the broad jump away from Old Hickey. He——”
“This way, boys. I hearn the varmints not a second ago!”
The voice, raucous and savage, came behind them. Its owner was still in the brush. They could hear his heavy-footed tramplings. But it warned them that the moment for action had arrived.
With a quick run, Tom reached the bank of the stream. Then up he shot and outward over the boiling, screaming waters, and—landed on the rock with six inches or more to spare. The great stone was wet and slippery, but he maintained his footing, and turned with a wave toward the shore.
As he did so a terrible fear shot into his heart. What if Jack’s nerve failed him at the last instant? Situated as Tom was, he would be powerless to help him, for to leap back to shore again would be an impossibility. Shout encouragement he dared not. All he could do was to wait, with the river roaring in the blackness all about him.
Suddenly ashore the night was split by a red flash and a sharp report sounded above the turmoil. Jack had been sighted and they were firing at him.
“Oh, Jack, why won’t you jump?”
The words were wrung from the Bungalow Boy as he stood upright on the wet rock, the spray of the racing river showering him till he was as drenched as his foothold. With burning eyes, he peered shoreward.