Just how they clambered down that rocky, slippery track none of the party was ever able to recall in after life. But, burned deep on each boy’s mind for as long as he should live was the picture they saw as they came in full view of the swirling, madly dashing torrent. Above a foam-flecked eddy, beyond which the main current boiled and seethed, towered the black, spider-like outlines of the trestle. On the other shore was a rocky steep covered with big pines and balsams.
Between the two, his white, frightened face showing above the current as he clung with might and main to a log, was Persimmons. This log, evidently the trunk of a tree which had fallen from its foothold beside the path on the depot[26] side of the torrent, reached out some twenty feet above the devil’s caldron of the stream. The roots and the main part of the trunk rested on the shore. That portion that projected over the water was nothing more than a slender pole. The freshets of spring had swept it clean of branch or limb. It was as bare as a flag-staff.
Under it the green water rushed frantically on toward a fall that lay beyond the trestle. The voice of the cataract was plainly audible in their ears, although in the extremity of their fear for Persimmons they gave it no heed. It was almost at the end of this frail support that the boy was clinging. Only his head and shoulders were above the water, which dragged malignantly at him, trying to tear loose his hold. It was plain at once that flesh and blood could not stand the strain long. If they did not act to save him, and that quickly, Percy Simmons was doomed speedily to be swept from his hold and hurtled to[27] the falls and—but they did not dare dwell upon that thought.
How the boy could have got where he was, was for the present a mystery. But there he was, almost at the end of the slender tree trunk, which whipped under the strain of his weight.
“Can you hold on?” shouted Ralph, using the first words that came into his head.
They saw Persimmons’ lips move, but could not hear his reply.
“Don’t make him speak; he needs every ounce of breath he has,” said the professor, whose face was ashen white under his tan. The boys were hardly less pale. They looked about them despairingly.
“We must find a rope and get it out to him,” cried Harry Ware.
“But how? Nobody could maintain a foothold on that log,” declared Ralph.
“We might drift it down to him,” suggested the station agent; “get on the bank further up[28] and allow the current to carry down a loop that he could grab.”
“That’s a good idea,” cried the professor, hailing any solution of their quandary with joy, “have you got a rope?”
“Yes, in the shack above. I’ll get it in a jiffy.”
Before he had finished speaking, the man was off, racing up the rocky path as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Hold on, Perce!” cried Ralph encouragingly, waving his hand. “We’ll get you out of that in no time.”
They saw poor Persimmons’ lips try to frame a pitiful smile, but the next instant a wave of foam dashed over him. After what seemed an agony of waiting, but which was in reality only a few minutes, the agent reappeared with several yards of light but strong rope.
“Now we shan’t be long,” he said encouragingly, as he rapidly formed a loop in it.
No sooner was this done, than Ralph seized the[29] rope and tried to throw it over Persimmons’ head like a lasso. He had learned to throw a rope like a cowboy on the Border, but this time either the feat was beyond his skill, or he was too unnerved to do it properly. At any rate, at each attempt the throw fell short, and the current whirled the lifeline out of their comrade’s reach.
Fortunately, Persimmons had managed, by this time, to brace his feet against an out-cropping rock, and so give his overstrained arms some relief. But it was obvious that, even with this aid, he could not hold on much longer.
Nothing remained but to try the plan that the agent had suggested, namely, to carry the rope up the bank a little and try to drift it down stream. With a prayer on his lips, Ralph made the first cast. The rope fell on the water in what appeared to be just the spot for the current to carry it down to the boy they were trying to rescue.
But their joy was short lived. Having carried[30] the loop a short way, a viciously swirling eddy caught it and sucked it under the surface. It became entangled in a rock, and they had much ado to get it back ashore at all.
A sigh that was almost a groan broke from Ralph as he saw the futility of his cast. It looked like the last chance to save the boy whose life depended on their reaching him quickly. It was out of the question to get out on the slender, swaying end of the trunk to which young Simmons was clinging. Not one of them but was too heavy to risk it. And, in the event of the trunk snapping, they knew only too well what would ensue. A brief struggle, and their comrade would be swept to the falls, from which he could not possibly emerge alive.
“We must save him!” panted Ralph, “but how—how?”
“The only way is to get the rope to him,” said the professor.
“And we can’t accomplish that unless—I think[31] I can do it, professor,” broke off Ralph suddenly.
“What do you mean to do?”
“To straddle that log and get the rope out to him in that way.”
“Nonsense, it would not bear your weight even if you could balance on it.”
But Ralph begged so hard to be allowed to put his plan into execution that the professor was at last forced to give way and consent to his trying the perilous feat.
“But come back the instant you are convinced you are in danger,” he commanded; “remember, I am in charge of you boys.”
Ralph eagerly gave the required bond. Fastening the rope to his waist, he straddled the narrow trunk and gingerly began working himself forward toward his imperiled chum.
He got along all right till he was in a position where his feet began to be clawed at by the hurrying waters below. He swayed, recovered[32] himself by a desperate effort, and then once more began his snail-like progress. The sight of Persimmons’ blue lips and white cheeks, for in that land the waters are almost as cold in midsummer as in the depth of winter, gave him fresh determination to continue his hazardous mission.
But even the most determined will cannot always overcome material obstacles. A chunk of driftwood was swept against Ralph’s feet. He was almost overbalanced by the force of the blow. The watchers on shore saw him strive wildly for an instant to recover his equilibrium, and then a cry of alarm broke from their lips as they saw the boy suddenly lose his balance completely and topple off the trunk into the stream.
“The rope! Haul on the rope!” shouted the professor, as Ralph vanished, to reappear an instant later fighting for his life in the relentless torrent.
Well it was for the boy then, that he had tied the rope to his waist. Had he not done so, the[33] moment might have been his last, for even the strongest swimmer that ever breasted water would have been but a helpless infant in that titanic current.
They all laid hold of the rope and pulled with every ounce of muscle their combined forces could command. But, even then, so strongly did the swiftly dashing stream suck at its victim that it was all they could do to get him ashore. Blue and shivering from cold, however, Ralph finally found footing and scrambled up the bank. Then, and not till then—such had been the strain—did they recollect Persimmons.
For an instant they hardly dared to look up. They feared that the end of the long log might prove to be tenantless. But, to their unspeakable relief, Persimmons still was clinging there. But even as they gave a shout of joy at the sight of him, another thought rushed in. Of what avail was it that the boy was there, when there appeared no possible way of getting him out of his predicament?
[34]
Were they to stand there helplessly and see him swept to his death before their very eyes? Was there nothing they could do? No untried way of getting that precious rope to him?
It appeared that the answer to these questions must be in the negative.
“Great heaven!” burst from the professor’s pale lips, and his voice sounded harsh and rough as if his throat was as dry as ashes. “Can’t we do anything? Can none of you suggest a way?”
“I tink I can get dat rope out dere, if you’ll gimme a chanct, boss,” piped a voice at his elbow.
They all looked around. It was Jimmie, whom, in the stress of the last minutes, they had forgotten as completely as if he had never existed. But now here he was, repeating, with calm assurance, but no braggadocio, his offer:
“I tink I can get it to him, if you’ll gimme a chanct.”