Part 25 (1/2)

He whom he addressed turned his eyes slowly to give the speaker an appealing look, and then they closed, the head dropped back, the surging waters swept over the face, and, but for the artist's st.u.r.dy arm, it would have gone ill indeed; but the next moment the fainting man's head was raised and rested on the artist's shoulder.

”He must be badly hurt, Will. But all right; I've got him safe, and I'll soon take him to the sh.o.r.e.”

”Here, let me take one side,” cried Will.

”Nonsense, dear lad! Stay as you are.”

”I can't,” cried Will; ”I must help. He is my father, and I must and will!”

”That's right, my boy, but on my word you can't. I am a strong man, I believe, but it is all I can do to hold my own. If you leave go you'll be swept away, and your father will be drowned; for I tell you now, I couldn't stop by him and see you go.”

Will gazed at him blankly, and for a few moments that group in the midst of the tangle of broken timber and jagged root hung together, boy and man staring into each other's eyes.

”Will, dear lad,” said the artist, at last, ”we are good old friends.

Trust and believe in me. I'll save your father if I can. If I don't, it is because I can't, and I've gone too. Promise me you'll hold on there till I come back, or some of your friends come down. They must know how we are fixed. Will you do what I say? I am speaking as your father would. Hold on where you are.”

”Would he say that?” gasped Will, faintly.

”He would, I vow.”

Will bowed his head, and the next moment he was clinging there, to the clean-washed roots of the uptorn tree, watching the heads of father and friend being rapidly swept-down the stream, while the waters were surging higher and higher about his breast, for the depression was being filled rapidly by the undammed stream.

”To be alone like this!” groaned Will. ”Why didn't I swim with them and try to help?”

He spoke aloud, his words sounding like a long-drawn moan; and then he started, for an echo seemed to come from close at hand, heard plainly above the rus.h.i.+ng of the stream. His next thought was that it was fancy, but, as the idea flitted through his brain in silence, there was the moan again from somewhere at the back.

It was the faint cry of someone in grievous peril, and it drove out self from the generous boy's breast. Someone wanted help, and he was strong and hearty still. It took but little time to find out whence the deep-toned moaning came. It was from out of a jagged ma.s.s of broken timbers, whose ends were anch.o.r.ed among the stones, and through them the rising waters were rus.h.i.+ng fast.

It was like turning from a great peril into dangers greater far, but the boy never thought of that. He measured the distance with his eyes, and came to the conclusion that he could pa.s.s hand by hand through the waters, among the roots, till he was straight above the swaying timbers.

To swim would be impossible, he knew; but he felt that he could let himself go, be carried those few yards, catch at one or other of the timbers, and hold on there.

As he finished thinking, he drew a deep breath, felt stronger than ever, and began to act.

Reaching out with his right hand, he got a grip of the nearest root, let go with his left, and in an instant, he felt as if the water had seized him, and was trying to tear his right arm out of the socket. The jerk was numbing, but he got a grip with his left hand, and tried again and again, till he lay on his back, his arms outstretched above his head, his feet pointing straight at the chaos of timbers, took another deep breath, and then let go.

There was a quick, gliding motion, and his feet struck against one big beam, slipped right over it, and the next minute he was in the very centre of the tangle, while his progress was checked for a sufficiently long time for him to get a good hold, and feel that for the time being he was safe. His breath was coming and going fast, though, from the excitement as well as exertion. And then it was almost in horror that his heart seemed to stand still. It was a momentary sensation, and it gave way to a feeling of joy, for there, close at his side, so near that he could touch, was the grim, upturned face of Drinkwater, with eyes staring wildly into his. He, too, was clinging with all his might to one of the broken timber baulks, and, as his eyes met Will's, he uttered a piteous, gasping cry, and murmured the one word--

”Help!”

That appeal went straight to the boy's heart, and seemed to nerve him for his task.

”Help? Yes!” he cried. ”I've come to bring you help;” and then a pang shot through his breast as he spoke his next words. ”Mr Manners was here just now, and he'll soon be back.”

Would, he asked himself, as he thought of his father, those words prove true?

”Cheer up, old fellow!” he cried, and he felt stronger still.

Here was something he could do.

”Can you raise yourself a little higher?” he said, for the rising water lapped in a wave nearly to the sufferer's mouth.