The girl got nearer to the mason, and looked up at him with her eyes full of tears.
“Thank ye, John,” she said. “D’ye think he’ll get him out?”
“Maybe he will, my lass. He’s a man that knows what he’s doing. I’ll say so much for him.”
“Nay!” added the mason sorrowfully. “Th’ ice’ll never hold him—his hand’s in—and there goes his knee. Maester! maester!” he shouted, “come off! come off!” and many a voice besides mine echoed him, “Come off! come off!”
The girl got John Binder by the arm, and said hoarsely, “Fetch him off! He’s a reight good ’un—over good to be drownded, if—if it’s of no use.” And she sat down on the bank, and pulled her mill-
shawl over her head, and cried as I had never seen any one cry before.
I was so busy watching her that I did not see that Mr. Wood had got back to the bank. Several hands were held out to help him, but he shook his head and said—“Got a knife?”
Two or three jack-knives were out in an instant. He pointed to the alder thicket. “I want two poles,” he said, “sixteen feet long, if you can, and as thick as my wrist at the bottom.”
“All right, sir.”
He sat down on the bank, and I rushed up and took one of his cold wet hands in both mine, and said, “Please, please, don’t go on any more.”