"Out there," responded somebody, pointing.
"W-why don't somebody go help him?" gasped the other. "He'll drown!"
"Don't know where to go to," answered the first speaker, shaking his head.
Fischer sank back, too exhausted, himself, to move.
"He'll drown! He'll drown!" he muttered. "He is tired to death from the race."
And after that there was another anxious wait, every one hesitating, wondering if there were any use venturing into the tossing water.
The storm was one that came in gusts; its first minute's fury past, there was a brief let up in its violence, and the darkness that the black clouds had brought with them yielded to the daylight for a while. During that time those on the shore got one brief glimpse of a startling panorama.
The boat was sighted first, still skimming along before the gale, but obviously laboring with the water she had shipped. The frightened occupant was still in the stern, clinging to the gunwale with terror. There was a shout raised when the boat was noticed, and all eyes were bent upon it anxiously. Then some one, chancing a glance down the river below, caught a glimpse of a moving head.
"There's Mallory!" he cried. "Hooray!"
There was Mallory, and Mallory was swimming desperately, as the crowd could dimly see. For the boat he was aiming at was just a little farther out in the stream than he, and bearing swiftly down upon him. Whatever happened must happen with startling rapidity, and the crowd knew it, and forebore to shout—almost to breathe.