Another moment, and a hand appeared above the water, its fingers hooked like a bird's talons.

This grisly appeal determined Tristram to make another attempt.

He kicked out, seized the uplifted arm just around the wrist, and with half a dozen fierce strokes managed to gain the bank at the feet of his enemies.
While he dug a hand into the soft mud and paused for a moment to shift his hold and draw breath, one of the three unclasped a leathern belt and dangled it over the brink.

Tristram reached out, caught it by the buckle, and was helped up with his burden.

Two pairs of strong arms grasped and pulled him forward.
"Turn him--on his face and let the water--run out; then on his back-- give him air!" he gasped, and with that fainted clean away on the green turf.
When his senses came back, the three men were bending over him.
"Where is the other one ?" he asked feebly.
"Oh, Dick's all right." And indeed Dick was sitting up a few paces off, and coughing violently.
"But look here, you've played us a pretty trick!" the voice went on.
Tristram did not know that his wig had been lost in the struggle, or that the burnt cork which Captain Salt had applied was now running across his face in a vague smear.