Festing would not let go; he meant to put the log into its socket, or let it start on its plunge to the river over his body.
For a few tense moments they struggled savagely, with slipping hands and labored breath, while Festing, using his head as a ram, pushed the point of the swaying mass nearer the hole.

Then, when all could do no more, the strain suddenly slackened and there was a jar as the log, sliding through their arms, sank into the pit.

After this, it was easier to hold it, while one threw in and beat down the gravel.

Five minutes later, Charnock sat down on the bank.

His face was crimson, his hands bled, and his chest heaved as he fought for breath, but he felt ridiculously satisfied.
"Thanks!" gasped Festing.