One cry, one shout passed, then John had torn off coat, boots, and
waistcoat, and plunged in to swim across, perceiving to his horror
that not only was there imminent danger of the boy's weight
overpowering her, but that the bank, undermined by recent floods, was
crumbling under her feet, and the willow-stump fast yielding to the
strain on its roots. And while each moment was life or death to her,
he found the current unexpectedly strong, and he had to use his
utmost efforts to avoid being carried down far below where she stood
watching with cramped, strained failing limbs, and eyes of appealing,
agonising hope.
One shout of encouragement as he was carried past her, but stemming
the current all the time, and at last he paddled back towards her,
and came close enough to lay hold of the boy.
"Let go," he said, "I have him."
But just as Sydney relaxed her hold on the boy the willow stump gave
way and toppled over with an avalanche of clay and stones. Happily
Sydney had already unfastened her grasp, and so fell, or threw
herself backwards on the bank, scratched, battered, bruised, and
feeling half buried for an instant, but struggling up immediately,
and shrieking with horror as she missed John and the boy, who had
both been swept in by the tree.
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