"Brad! I can't—lift—my foot...! I can't move it!"
Bradford, a few steps to the right, felt his heart leap sickeningly at the stark terror in the voice.
"Take it easy! Get a grip on my pole—now!"
He heaved strongly, feet slipping, unable to get a purchase to make his strength felt against the pull of the quicksand. The perspiration trickled into his smarting eyes. Through Canham's faceplate, he could see his face set in agonized strain as he attempted to free his feet in their heavy boots, the water level rising from waist to armpits as he struggled. Bradford redoubled his efforts, muscles cracking as he tried to heave the other free bodily. Canham relaxed suddenly.
"It's no use," he panted heavily. "Don't come closer—it'll just get both of us. Don't stay and watch it—it'll just make it harder. Wait a minute—here, catch!"
With a last convulsive effort, he jerked loose the oxygen tank and gave it a desperate throw. Bradford automatically caught it, nearly going off-balance and righting himself with panic-stricken effort.
"Hold on! hold on—" he gritted. "I'll get some branches from that shrub; you can throw yourself forward so I can get a grip on you."
Canham looked at him palely.
"No use. But, I'm not going under with my helmet on, still alive, under—this!"
He shuddered queasily, and with one quick jerk freed his faceplate as he went under. For a moment the water boiled furiously as the remaining oxygen in his suit released. Then Bradford stood alone, staring stupidly with shock, watching as the bubbles rose more and more slowly and died away.