“I wouldn’t let a donkey duck me, not I,” cried Dobbin.
“That’s all right,” retorted Trim, “I’ll save the little rascal, see if I don’t.”
Between the force of the current and the struggles of the donkey Trim found it impossible to keep his footing or to make any progress toward the shore.
He was being borne gradually, though steadily, down the stream. Meantime the donkey did not cease his efforts to make for the other shore, and Trim kept his arm around the beast’s neck as desperately as if his own life depended on success.
So they went stumbling and slipping down stream until at length they were at the bottom of the rapids and thus near the second raft.
One of the men there held out a pole to Trim which he grasped and so was pulled alongside.
The water there was so deep that he could not touch bottom, and it was useless to try to lift the donkey out. The only thing to do was to push the raft into shallow water near shore.
This was done, and after not a little splashing and obstinate resistance on the part of the donkey, the beast was finally hauled on board, where he shook himself and uttered a long-drawn bray.
“That may mean joy because he got out,” said Trim, “but it certainly doesn’t mean gratitude to me for saving him.”
Seeing how the affair was coming out, Dobbin had had the first raft pushed from shore, and he was now abreast of the second.