“Something came,” Jim agreed. “Let’s hope it wasn’t the tackling giving. We’ll know this time, anyhow. Ready, boys?”
Once more the strain came. The four rope-holders struggled together, their muscles standing out like knotted cords. Nugget, knowing his business just as well as they, put his head down and leaned against the strain, gaining foot by foot. An anguished bellow broke from the bullock. There came a sucking, squelching sound.
“He’s coming!” Norah gasped. “Pull, boys!”
A final struggle, and the strain eased suddenly. The mud gave—the bullock, feeling himself freed from the horror that had gripped his legs, plunged stiffly forward, tripped, and fell bodily into the water. They dragged him out on his side, a pitiful, mud-plastered object. It required considerable coaxing to get him upon his feet, and then he stood still, too numbed and confused to move, while the tackling was removed.
“There you are,” Jim said at last, dealing him a hearty blow with a girth. “Move on—you can’t stand there all night, you know.” But it was only after repeated blows that the rescued one obeyed, stumbling across the mud to the safety of the bank, where he stood, trembling with cold.
“We can’t leave him here,” Jim said. “He’s too cold altogether—he’ll have to be housed to-night. Billy, you bring him in slowly—hitch old Nugget to him if he won’t travel.”
“Plenty,” said Billy, lugubriously. He also was cold, and the prospect of tailing in behind the numbed bullock was anything but pleasant. He began his slow journey as the other four cantered off across the paddock.
Mr. Linton came out to the stable yard to greet them. He had been watching for some time before he heard the beat of far-off hoofs, and the echo of young voices, singing in the dusk.
“Well, you seem cheerful enough,” he said. “Job tough?” The light from the stables fell on his mud-covered son, and he laughed a little. “It was as well you put on dungarees, Jim.”
“Just as well,” said Jim, laughing. “Got him out, anyhow.”