There was no time for another word. They saw him seize her round the waist, lift her bodily from her feet, and then start across the cake with his back toward the dam. Into the icy water he plunged, carrying her with him.
Then began a fierce fight for life, watched by horrified boys and weeping girls. Some of the boys had presence of mind enough to dash for the nearest shore, tear off their skates, and attempt to get out upon the dam to offer assistance. They were too late, however, to be of any service in that way.
Strong swimmer though he was, Grant, encumbered by the helpless, frightened and half drowned girl, could not overcome the suction of the water, which relentlessly bore him toward the open floodgate. Fortunately, he did succeed in getting well clear of the huge icecake, which broke up into several crashing, grinding pieces as it was borne through the open gate. At last, whirled onward, he turned all his efforts to the seemingly hopeless task of supporting the girl and keeping his own head above water.
Shouting boys ran down the bank of the stream below the dam. Their cries were heard in the village, and men came hurrying out to learn what had happened.
For a moment or two the boy and girl disappeared in the swirl of white water directly below the dam. Few thought ever again to see either of them alive, but sudden cries went up as a human head appeared in the midst of the channel and Rodney Grant was seen still clinging to Lelia Barker as he battled with the current.
“The rocks,” cried Phil Springer—“they’ll be dashed on the rocks! They’re goners!”
In the midst of the stream some ledges thrust themselves, white and slippery, even above the swollen torrent. Ordinarily these ledges stood out high and dry, forming a sort of an island. Grant knew they were there. He knew likewise that the icy chill was benumbing him and his strength was failing. If the stream carried them down into the lower pond the chances were a thousand to one that the current would suck them beneath the ice, and that surely would be the end. To the young Texan those ledges seemed the sole possible means of salvation, and, regardless of the threatening bruises or injuries that might be sustained when cast upon them, he fought with every atom of his strength against being borne past.
He made it, too. The water flung them up on the dripping ledges, and there he somehow found a cleft into which the fingers of his right hand gripped, while his left arm still held the girl hugged fast.
“A rope! Bring a rope!” shouted scores of voices.
Two boys ran panting to Stickney’s store, returning with a huge coil of stout rope, which some men assisted them in carrying.