It actually looked as though some unseen power had thrust out a hand to give Hugh the few additional seconds he required in order to make good. Some snag, that might have been a tree-trunk standing upright in the water, caught the oncoming mass and held it suspended for just a brief space of time. Then it overcame the obstacle to its progress and started once more toward the bridge.
That short truce was enough. It enabled Hugh to drag his burden to where eager hands seized upon them both. Thus they were drawn from the approach to the bridge, with every spectator shrieking his or her approval.
And, while this tumult was going on, the floating tree and its attendant mass of wreckage was seen to come against the middle of the endangered span. The entire fabric trembled, and gave way. There was a crash that thrilled every heart, a stupendous shudder, as of keen regret over parting from old and valued friends, and with that the bridge vanished into the maw of the flood.
Where it had stood now lay a horrid gap. Fragments projected from the opposite shore, telling where the bridge had once been anchored. And floating down-stream on the yellow torrents, were parts of the structure, intermingled with the wreckage that had been the means of its dissolution.
Hugh had sank to the ground out of breath as soon as he realized that he was safely off the endangered structure. Some of the scouts bore Tug Wilson away to the nearest house. The boy had had a close call, and everybody was talking about it.
“Who was that young chap?”
“He was a scout, you could see!”
“Must have been a stranger in Lawrence, then, because I know all our boys, and it wasn’t one of them!”
“The bravest thing I ever saw done, barring none!”
“He ought to get a silver medal for that, sure thing!”