A trail of tiny bubbles rose to the surface.
CHAPTER XI
FEROCIOUS FOES
But Death had not yet claimed Bomba for his own.
The water broke and the lad’s face appeared, ghastly drawn and white. He was not yet conquered. He would make one more supreme effort.
He drew the blessed air into his lungs. The veins stood out on his neck, the great muscles in his shoulders were ridged like whipcords as he strained to throw the last of the imprisoning branches from his chest.
If it had not been for his awful desperation, even his great strength would not have been equal to the task. As it was, there was a ripping, tearing sound, and slowly the grip of the branches relaxed, slowly Bomba forced himself upward, his face suffused with blood, his breath coming in short gasps of agony.
Then a great joy flooded his heart. The mass upon his chest yielded. He sat upright in the pool. Now he could use his shoulders as well as his arms to free the lower part of his body. And he had escaped those greedy waters that a moment before had been sucking at his breath.
He rested for a while, for the effort had exhausted him; rested, while he drew great draughts of air into his lungs, luxuriously expanding the chest that had been so cruelly imprisoned.
He flexed his arms and felt his body carefully to make sure no bones were broken.
Everything all right there! But his legs were yet held captive, and there was no feeling in them. They might be broken, crushed. He could not tell.