Being compelled to fight against the steady current, the boat could not make such very rapid progress, especially when backing up. Still it seemed as though Buster might be swimming toward them. He was using only one hand, and churning the water like the paddle-wheel of a Mississippi steamboat.
“Whew!” they heard him say, after ejecting a stream of water from his mouth, which he persisted in keeping open; “a sockdolager, I tell you! Going to beat all the records this time. It must be a river horse, or a boss sturgeon, boys. I want to save him, you bet!”
Evidently, like a true fisherman, Buster’s first, last and only thought concerned the successful landing of the game he had struck. And presently the boat had come so close to the submerged boy that Jack stopped the engine lest the propeller do Buster some material damage.
Two of them leaned over the stern and with great difficulty managed to drag the water-soaked chum aboard.
“Sit there in the stern until you drain, Buster,” ordered Jack. “If we took all that water aboard we’d be in danger of foundering.”
“What ails your left hand?” demanded Josh.
“Why, don’t you see,” explained George, “the silly went and wound the line about his wrist. Then when the fish took hold it was a case of Buster going overboard or having his left arm pulled out of its socket. No wonder he lets it hang down like that now. I bet you it hurts like fun.”
“But say, the bally old fish has quit pulling like mad!” exclaimed Buster, as though that circumstance troubled him much more than any bodily pain he might be enduring.
Josh leaned forward and took hold of the line. He even started to pull it in after the manner of a skillful fisherman, while Buster eyed him eagerly.
“Tell me you feel him pulling yet, Josh, can’t you?” he pleaded. “Don’t break my heart by saying he’s gone! After all my fight I deserve to land that monster.”