Then she swung to the rough beams. The splinters cut into her hands but she swung from one post to another, clinging without seeming to breathe.
“Glory! Care-ful!” begged the boy in a pained whisper, fearful that even a word would shock her hands from their perilous hold.
“There,” he said again. “Rest there! Get your breath.”
How spacious the little cellar seemed! And how black the water beneath! She could hear it bubble and swirl, coming in and forcing out.
If only she could reach that next post! But how her hands hurt! She could feel the blood wet in her palms. And her body was like lead, dragging on the lacerations.
“Hold it!” cautioned Marty. “Now swing!”
Somehow she did it. She was on the other side of the cellar within a few feet of the rescuing windows.
“Easy! Don’t slip!”
“Oh, I won’t now,” she declared, her hands free once more as she crouched in a nest of posts with cross pieces forming uprights. “I hear the car! I must smash that window!”
As far about her as she could reach she tried for loose timber. But it was all securely nailed. Again the terror of failure. Then: