He had turned up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, and the
muscles on his arms were standing out under the strain, his lips were
set tightly, and there was the man's frown of determination on his
brow.
"It has gone down: it's no use," she said. "You may as well stop and
rest."
He looked over his shoulder.
"No! He has come up again!" he exclaimed: it was noticeable that he
called the dog "he," while she spoke of it as "it." "We shall get him
in time. Keep the boat straight!"
The words were uttered in a tone of command, and they moved her as the
touch of his hand had done; and she set her mind upon the task as she
had never before set it upon anything.
Reaching well forward, pulling with the long, steady stroke of the
practised oarsman, Stafford sent the boat along like an arrow, and
presently he drove it up to the spot where the dog strove in its death
straggle.
It was a tiny black-and-tan terrier, and Stafford, as he looked over
his shoulder, saw the great eyes turned to him with a piteous entreaty
that made his heart ache.
"Turn the boat--quick!" he cried; and as the skiff slid alongside the
dog, he swooped it up.
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