Ripley was safe, and could make the next attempt to get out on the ice.
Meanwhile, Prescott swam to another part of the ice edge.

He rested his hands on that edge, not heavily, but just enough for some support.

At the same time he kept his tired, aching, almost frozen legs in motion just to keep himself from growing any more numb.
Four times Fred Ripley broke through the thin ice, but each time Dave Darrin, astride the first raft, pulled in on the rope just in time.
After getting himself out of the water for the fifth time, Ripley crawled over stronger ice, and went on past the hole in which Dave sat on the raft.
Then Ripley was able to get to his feet, tottering toward the shore, shaking as though with fever and chills.
A cheer went up from those who watched.

The enthusiasm would have been vastly greater had not the crowd had its eyes on Dick Prescott, who must yet be saved if aid could reach him before his numbed limbs could sustain him no longer.
"Get that rope off, Ripley," bawled Dave Darrin.

"Hurry! I must throw it to Dick, or he'll go down!" "I can't get it off," mumbled Fred, tugging vainly, almost aimlessly, as he still moved coveward.
As he was on staunch ice, now, three or four men ran toward him.
One, with a sharp knife, waved the others away and quickly slashed the noose away from Fred's shoulders.
"Go on, you pup!" grumbled the man with the knife.