"It's better here," he called. "I'll be all right now."
The Frenchman jumped to his feet.
"Look out!" he shouted, gesticulating violently. "You go down; walk off 'im!"
Mills glanced down, and saw that the creeping sand had him knee-deep. He dragged his right foot forth and plunged forward, but with the action his left leg sank to the crutch, and he only kept his balance with a violent effort.
The Frenchman danced on the bank. "Throw you' gun down," he shouted. "Throw you' boots down. You' in to the waist now. Push yo'self back to the water. Push hard."
He wrung his hands together with excitement.
Mills threw down his gun, and the sand swallowed it at once. He turned his head to the man at the bank.
"It's no good, chum," he said quietly. "I reckon you better take a shot at me with that revolver."
The sand was in his armpits. The Frenchman ceased to jump and wring his hands, and smiled at him oddly. Mills, in the midst of his trouble, felt an odd sense of outraged propriety. The smile, he reflected, was ill-timed—and he was sinking deeper.
"What you grinning at?" he gasped. "Shoot, can't you?"