“Hold tight, Frank; we’re coming!”
It was Sherman Ward’s voice. Sanson could scarcely believe his senses, even though a moment later he heard the scrape of skates and the grating of a sudden stopping. It took him a moment or two to realize that he had become turned around and was facing the inlet and the bridge, so that the fellows had been able to approach from down the lake without his seeing them.
“Get that branch there,” he heard Sherman order crisply. “Hustle! Can you keep up a bit longer, Frank?”
“S-s-sure!” answered Sanson, through chattering teeth. “Only be as qu-quick as you c-c-can. P-P-Paul–”
“We’ll be there in half a shake. That’s it, Dale. Shove it across. Now, you fellows hold fast to that end while I go out.”
There was a scraping sound and the end of a stout branch appeared in front of Sanson. Then, more slowly, Sherman’s head and shoulders came in sight as he crept cautiously out along it.
“I’ll take him first,” he said. “Can you raise him up a little?”
“I’m afraid not. My arm’s all numb, and–”
“All right,” interrupted the patrol-leader. “I’ll manage. Hold fast back there.”
He wriggled forward a bit more and, reaching down, managed to catch Trexler under the arms. To draw him out of the water was a more difficult business, but Sherman had good muscles and accomplished it without accident. The ice creaked and groaned, but evidently had not been much weakened by the treacherous spring, and it held. The arm with which Frank had been supporting the boy had absolutely no feeling in it, and the strain of gripping the slippery ice was growing unendurable. He shifted his hold to the stick, however, and a moment later he was half lifted, half helped out on the solid ice.