There, a yard above the one open hatchway, through which the whole force of the stream was rushing, was the unhappy Mops, alias Scratch, alias Dirty Dick, alias Jack Sheppard, paddling, and sneezing, and winking, his little bald muzzle turned piteously upward to the sky.
'He will be drowned!' quoth the colonel.
There was no doubt of it; and so Mops thought, as, shivering and whining, he plied every leg, while the glassy current dragged him back and back, and Honoria sobbed like a child.
The colonel lay down on the bridge, and caught at him: his arm was a foot too short.

In a moment the huge form of Tregarva plunged solemnly into the water, with a splash like seven salmon, and Mops was jerked out over the colonel's head high and dry on to the bridge.
'You'll be drowned, at least!' shouted the colonel, with an oath of Uncle Toby's own.
Tregarva saw his danger, made one desperate bound upward, and missed the bridge.

The colonel caught at him, tore off a piece of his collar--the calm, solemn face of the keeper flashed past beneath him, and disappeared through the roaring gate.
They rushed to the other side of the bridge--caught one glimpse of a dark body fleeting and roaring down the foam-way.

The colonel leapt the bridge-rail like a deer, rushed out along the buck-stage, tore off his coat, and sprung headlong into the boiling pool, 'rejoicing in his might,' as old Homer would say.
Lancelot, forgetting his crutches, was dashing after him, when he felt a soft hand clutching at his arm.
'Lancelot! Mr.Smith!' cried Argemone.

'You shall not go! You are too ill--weak--' 'A fellow-creature's life!' 'What is his life to yours ?' she cried, in a tone of deep passion.