Chet felt that he could not do it.
“Oh, Chet! Chet!” wailed Carolyn May, “you’ve dropped my rope!”
The end of it hung in the water. The child, of course, could not throw it across to him. The boy was stricken dumb and motionless. That is, he was motionless, save for the trembling of his limbs and the chattering of his teeth. The chill of the water had struck through, it seemed, to the very marrow of his bones.
What he should do, poor Chet could not think. His brain seemed completely clouded. And he was so cold and helpless that there was not much he could do, anyway.
His clothing was stiffening on his frame. The snow beat against his back, and he could scarcely stand. The space was growing wider between the edge of the ice where he stood and that edge where Carolyn May and the dog were.
But what was the little girl doing? He saw her hauling in on the wet rope, and she seemed to be speaking to Prince, for he stood directly before her, his ears erect, his tail agitated. By-and-by he barked sharply.
“Now, Princey!” Chet heard her cry.
She thrust the end of the rope into the dog’s jaws and waved her mittened hand towards the open water and the unhappy Chet beyond it.
Prince sprang around, faced the strait of black water, shaking the end of the rope vigorously. Chet saw what she meant, and he shrieked to the dog:
“Come on, Prince! Come on, good dog! Here, sir!”