I went back to Frosty, and we stood elbows touching, waiting for whatever was coming.
For what seemed a long while, nothing came but wind and water.

But I don't mind saying that there was plenty of that, and if either one had been suddenly barred out of the game we wouldn't any of us have called the umpire harsh names.

We drifted, slippety-slosh, and the wind ripped holes in the atmosphere and made our eyes water with the bare force of it when we faced the west.

And none of us had anything to say, except Pochette; he said a lot, I remember, but never mind what.

I don't suppose he was mentally responsible at the time.
Then, a long, narrow, yellow tongue of sand-bar seemed to reach right out into the river and lap us up.