In a frenzy of fear he tugged at the rope. Would it never yield? If he only had time to get his knife out but he did not dare attempt it. Already his lungs seemed nearly at the point of bursting. With a prayer in his heart he gave a final desperate pull and the foot was free. He had just strength enough left to give a kick against the bottom of the lake as he grabbed his brother in his arms. In spite of his weakness it was a good strong kick and they shot rapidly upward although, as Jack afterward said, it seemed about a week before his head popped out of the water. Eagerly the boy drank the life-giving air into his lungs all the while making a desperate effort to keep his brother’s head above water. He knew that Bob was still unconscious and the thought that he might be dead nearly overcame him. But, as he realized that their safety depended upon his not losing his head, he forced himself to keep calm. But it was hard work supporting that dead weight and he was tiring rapidly.
“We’ll have you in a minute,” he heard the voice as from a great distance but almost instantly he felt the weight taken from him and he was being dragged into a boat.
“Bob,” he gasped.
But Bob had already opened his eyes.
“I—I’m alright,” he said faintly. “Where’s Jack?”
“Right here, old man,” he whispered, the joy at knowing that his brother was alive doing much to restore his strength. It was some minutes, however before he got to his feet. He noticed that both Will and Fred Jenkins seemed very ill-at-ease and the latter was as pale as his tanned skin would permit.
“What was the idea?” he asked as he got slowly to his feet.
For a moment neither boy answered. Then Fred, after a glance at his brother, said:
“Tiller rope caught.”
“That’s the excuse you made the last time,” Jack said sternly. “Can’t you think of a better one?” Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned to Bob.