“How are we going to get it out to them?” was the question.
Then Bunk Lander appeared. He ripped off his coat and vest and broke the laces of his heavy shoes, which he kicked aside.
“Gimme one end of that rope!” he snarled. “What’s the matter with ye, anyhow? Hurry up! Do you want to see ’em drowned?”
“What are you going to do?” asked Phil Springer.
“I’m going to swim out there. Don’t talk. Tie that rope round my waist. Come on up-stream farther. I’ve got to start just below the dam, or the current will carry me past ’em. Come on, you snails!”
“You can’t do it—you can’t ever do it!” sobbed a voice.
“Who says I can’t?” snapped Bunk. “Oh, is it you, Barker? You ought to be doing something. You watch and you’ll see me do it.”
Into the comparatively still water just below the northern end of the dam Bunk waded unhesitatingly, with the end of the rope tied round his waist.
“Pay it out free!” he called back. “Don’t bother me by letting it get taut.”
In another moment, with the water almost up to his armpits, he plunged forward and began swimming with powerful strokes straight out toward the current. It caught him soon and began carrying him down the stream with increasing rapidity as he progressed.