"I will slip this other rope round you; then, if you slip in, I can drag you out." "I'll go," said Phil, alert and ready.

Then he kicked off his boots, which were stout--and every ounce mattered when one took to walking on muskegs; but as his clothing consisted of only a flannel shirt and serge knickerbockers there were no clothes for him to shed.
Katherine slipped one loop of rope over his shoulders, put the other looped rope into his hand, then laid an oar on the mud.
"Now, go; the rushes will hold you when you get there," she said sharply.
With light, cautious movements Phil stepped out on to the oar, balancing himself like a tightrope dancer, and because he was so small and light he passed in safety where a heavier person would have been quickly submerged.
Katherine stood up in the boat paying out both coils of rope.

Her face was ghastly white, and her heart was beating to suffocation.
She had not felt like this that day when she ventured her life on the ice to save Jervis Ferrars in the flood.

But that had been her own danger, this was her brother's, and therein lay the difference.
"Landed!" cried Phil, in a quavering tone of triumph, as he planted his bare feet firmly in the rushes, which, happily, were so matted together that they would not let him through.

Then he stooped, and Katherine heard him talking to the poor wretch caught in the mud beyond.