Five or six minutes passed as the raft glided
along without sound. He was about to relapse into his former
attitude of listless ease when he caught sight of some object in
the eddy that swept alongside. Mr. Cavendish promptly detached
himself from the handle of the sweep and ran to the edge of the
raft.
"Good Lord--what's that!" he gasped, but he already knew it was a
face, livid and blood-streaked. Dropping on his knees he reached
out a pair of long arms and made a dexterous grab, and his
fingers closed on the collar of Yancy's shirt. "Neighbor, I
certainly have got you!" said Cavendish, between his teeth. He
drew Yancy close alongside the raft, and, slipping a hand under
each arm, pulled him clear of the water. The swift current swept
the raft on down the stream. It rode fairly in the center of the
lane of light, but no eye had observed its passing. Mr.
Cavendish stood erect and stared down at the blood-stained face,
then he dropped on his knees again and began a hurried
examination of the still figure. "There's a little life here
--not much, but some--you was well worth fishing up!" be said
approvingly, after a brief interval. "Polly!" he called, raising
his voice.
This brought Mrs. Cavendish from one of the two cabins that
occupied the center of the raft. She was a young woman, still
very comely, though of a matronly plumpness. She was in her
nightgown, and when she caught sight of Yancy she uttered a
shriek and fled back into the shanty.
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