To her surprise she caught an answering sound.
“Tico!” she called as she caught the dog’s encouraging woof.
By the moonlight she made out his form, dancing on the shore. How had he made it? She was astonished. But leave it to a dog!
Ten minutes of heart-breaking struggle and her hands gripped a stronger branch. Even this dipped low, leaving her only abreast of the ridge of ice. With one hand she gripped the slippery surface. For a second she held on, then all but plunged head foremost into the tide.
“I must!” she told herself. “It’s my chance. My strength is leaving me.”
Once more she threw herself forward. This time as she felt herself slipping back she was seized by the collar of her stout mackinaw and pulled like a rag doll, up, up, up until she lay flat on the ice, completely exhausted, but safe.
“Good old Tico!” she breathed faintly. “Good Tico!”
The dog licked her cold cheeks.
When strength returned, she crept forward until she found herself on a bank of soft snow. There she stood up and looked about her. Matters did not seem much improved. She was on a narrow island in the midst of the river. The night was cold. It had been thawing during the day. Now it was freezing.
“Got—got to get these things off.” Her teeth were chattering.