The words ended in a startled exclamation as the ground fell beneath their feet. They pitched headlong into nothingness—
here was water in Jerry's face as he fell. A torrent engulfed him as he struck into it, pouring in from a lower passageway to plunge straight down the shaft. The roaring crash of water tore madly at his body; his arm was shot through with stabbing pain as Winslow's falling body was torn from his grasp.
He was conscious only of his bursting lungs when he came to the surface from the depths into which he plunged. With one arm he swam weakly, the other trailing at his side, while he gulped greedily at the air.
A voice came hoarsely from a distance. "Foster," it called. "Jerry—where are you, Jerry?"
Ah, the good air in his lungs—he could swim more strongly now. He managed to gasp an answer: "Here, Winslow, over here!" There was a splashing in response to his voice. He heard it over the noise of the waters he had been swept away from the cataract.
A hand was upon him in the dark. "Hurt?" asked the welcome voice. "Can you swim, Jerry?"
"A little. One arm's working."