"Know her!" echoed half the bystanders at once. "Why, she lives just across the river!"
"That's an ugly looking wound on the head there," continued Fischer, bending over the prostrate form. "Gosh! but that boom must have struck her. And here, Mallory," he added, "you'd best take a taste of this brandy. You look about dead yourself."
"No, I thank you," responded Mark, smiling weakly. "I'm all right. Only I'm glad it's all over and——"
Mark got no farther; as if to mock his words came a cry that made the crowd whirl about and look toward the river in alarm.
"Help! Help!"
"By George!" cried Fischer, "it's one of the fellows!"
"It's Alan!" shouted Mark. "Alan Dewey!"
And before any one could divine his intention he sprang up and made a dash for the river. For Mark knew how Dewey had come there; he had swum out, cripple though he was, to hunt for him; and with his one well arm, poor gallant Dewey was finding trouble in getting back.
Mark had been quick, but Fischer was a bit too quick for him and seized him by the arm.
"Come back here!" he commanded, sternly. "And don't be a fool. You're near dead. Some of you fellows swim out and tow that plebe in."