Thinking that some tree had been swept into the flood, he sought to pierce the darkness that lay along the shore.

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.